


Fic: The Only One

by sasha_b



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Complete, M/M, ka fic, ka fic: multi chapter, sequels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-21
Updated: 2013-06-21
Packaged: 2017-12-15 17:33:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 42,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/852173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some years following the events of Felt Like A Lifetime.  How does a soldier grow up?  Post movie AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written several years ago, though I still love it. Apologies for the character death; that is still hard on me. Thanks to Amera for the inspiration and typo slaying. Feedback is love!

_When they all come crashing down, midflight,_  
You know you're not the only one.  
When they're so alone they find a back door out of life.  
You know you're not the only one.

_We're all grieving,  
Lost and bleeding._

_All our lives,_  
We've been waiting  
For someone to call our leader.  
All your lies,  
I'm not believing.  
Heaven shine a light down on me. 

_So afraid to open your eyes, hypnotized._  
You know you're not the only one that never understood this life.  
And you're right, I don't deserve you but you know I'm not the only one. 

_We're all grieving,  
Lost and bleeding._

_All our lives,_  
We've been waiting  
For someone to call our leader.  
All your lies,  
I'm not believing.  
Heaven shine a light down on me. 

_Don't look down,_  
Don't look into the eyes of the world beneath you.  
Don't look down, you'll fall down,  
You'll become their sacrifice. 

_Right or wrong._  
Can't hold onto the fear that I'm lost without you.  
If I can't feel, I'm not mine,  
I'm not real. 

_All our lives,_  
We've been waiting  
For someone to call our leader.  
All your lies,  
I'm not believing,  
Heaven shine a light down on me. 

 

 

One.

Lancelot sprawled indolently on a bench that sat at the edge of the Orona family’s villa. His back was protesting only slightly, so he stayed where he was for the time being.

If Mithras himself appeared and asked Lancelot to get up, he’d have to say no. If Arthur’s God had come down from his Heavenly (and rather ostentatious, in Lancelot’s opinion) throne and told Lancelot he must go to save his soul from eternal damnation, Lancelot still would have remained on his comfortable arse, thank you very much.

He could occasionally catch snatches of Arthur’s voice, and then the higher pitched one of Olivia. Ligeia, it seemed, was wisely keeping quiet – Lancelot had to again admire the woman’s tenacity and patience when it came to Arthur. He’d certainly wanted to bash the man’s head in several times – and he’d lived with Arthur for ten years.

This lifetime.

Lancelot didn’t count the days in Britain. That hadn’t been living. That had been blood and hell and snow and tears and pain and brief flashes of love so bright they burned out within seconds.

“Arthur,” Lancelot could hear the obvious annoyance in Olivia’s tone, “Arthur, the bride is supposed to pick the flowers herself. What good would it do you to fetch me something? We need to follow tradition.”

Lancelot had to turn his laugh into a cough as the three people he’d been listening to rounded the corner of the house.

“Olivia, don’t you want this done right? I know your father should have done this,” Arthur was saying as he followed the willowy young woman, who was striding quickly toward the stables, “but I’m the best you’ve got. Besides, I thought you asked for my input.”

Olivia’s mother Ligeia had stopped walking and stood next to where Lancelot was sitting, and watched her daughter and her friend argue about Olivia’s upcoming wedding.

Ligeia turned brown eyes on Lancelot, and pursed her lips. “Why did I ask him for help?” she whispered, rolling her eyes. Lancelot just shrugged.

“Because you’re a glutton for punishment?” Lancelot answered. The lady sat next to him and smiled.

“Perhaps. Or perhaps I wanted to see her really happy, and thought he would be the one to help her get there,” Ligeia added, a slight wistful tone to her words. Lancelot sat up straight.

“Lady,” he sighed, “Arthur will slay any dragon, beat any giant, or fetch any thing you need retrieved for this wedding. He will also drive you mad with his incessant planning and rearranging. The man sees battles and opportunity for waging war everywhere.” He stood, and rubbed his hip as he popped his back, the old scar from his fight with Lucius Falco so long ago still paining him.

“I’ll get him out of your hair,” he told Ligeia. “But don’t worry, he’ll back sooner than you think.” He touched her hand lightly, grasping the fingers, and then walked purposefully to Arthur and Olivia, who had now moved on to discussing the dinner.

“Oh, Arthur, really? I don’t like shellfish – Lancelot! Don’t you gentlemen have important things to do today? I’m sure mother and I could finish up this part of the arrangements,” Olivia turned desperately to Lancelot. “I’m fine as – we’re fine as we are, today.”

Arthur was looking at a small vellum book he’d brought that was covered with his distinctive scratchy handwriting. He held a stylus in his right hand, and was tapping it against his teeth.

Olivia looked at Lancelot as Arthur was engrossed in his notes. Her large blue eyes popped wide and she made a gesture toward the barn, where Arthur and Lancelot’s horses were stabled. “Get him out of here,” she said through her teeth, taking Lancelot’s arm and turning him so they wouldn’t be overheard. “I love him like a father, but he’s driving me to drink.” Her slender face and expressive mouth conveyed her displeasure at Arthur’s overwhelming planning.

Lancelot laughed and patted her hand. “You asked for it, my sweet. But I’ll help you this once. Castus!” he bellowed, turning back to Arthur, who startled at Lancelot’s volume.

“Yes?” Arthur answered, cocking his head, annoyed at the intrusion. “I am not deaf, Lancelot. What is it?”

Lancelot strode to him and grasped his elbow. “My friend, it’s time we left these two lovely ladies alone for the day. Surely they have enough to do without us haranguing them constantly. Ah,” he interrupted Arthur as the other man made to protest, “we’ll be back later, I promise.”

He kept dragging Arthur toward the stables, while Arthur spouted a few last minute things to Olivia. She pulled a face, but curtsied to him nicely and agreed to see him in the morning.

Arthur called a belated good day to Ligeia, and then Lancelot had him forcibly in the saddle and on the road before the other man could try and turn and give one last command or direction.

*

Arthur’s villa was gorgeous in the waning light of day – the apple tree smell filled the air and the stamping of the horses that were in the stables could be heard as the two men reined in.

“Lancelot,” Arthur complained immediately as a servant took the horses leads, “I wasn’t finished. What was that about?”

Lancelot shot a warning glare at Arthur, but Arthur chose to ignore it. “The wedding is soon. If things are not ready in time, I’m concerned that – ”

Lancelot took the three steps that separated them and shut Arthur up by kissing him.

Arthur made a surprised mmmmf! sound but surrendered to Lancelot’s embrace after only a minute struggle.

Arthur laughed quietly when Lancelot pulled back and stayed within the circle of Arthur’s arms.

“I swear to you, Arthur, you’ve not only gotten more obstinate in your dotage, but you’ve become a master planner of battles, battles, everywhere,” Lancelot sighed, his eyes crinkling from the small grin on his face.

“A wedding is not a battle,” Arthur answered softly, his forehead resting against Lancelot’s. “Besides, they asked for my help. I wouldn’t have given it had I thought they were joking.”

“Really? In what world would that be true?” Lancelot shot back, but pressed his lips to Arthur’s again. “You really didn’t think you were being – overbearing?” He cocked a dark eyebrow and twisted his lips wryly.

“No,” Arthur replied, his tone making him sound hurt. He looked at Lancelot, his green eyes huge and liquid.

“Don’t you damn well give me that face, Castus,” Lancelot snorted, and broke out of Arthur’s hold. “You’re too old to get away with it.”

“What face? Seriously, Lancelot, you think I was pushing?” Arthur kept on, and followed Lancelot into the house as he spoke, almost running into Lancelot as he abruptly stopped in front a pretty piece of electrum mounted on the wall that served as a mirror.

“This face,” Lancelot said, grabbing Arthur’s cheeks and making him look into the polished surface. “The big, sad, green eyes, the hollowed cheeks, and worst of all, the quivering lip.”

“What? I don’t make my lip quiver,” Arthur replied, totally taken aback. “You’re the one who does the pouting. And don’t get me started on the long eyelashes!”

They met each others eyes, and then suddenly burst into laughter. They both looked back into the electrum, and sobered.

“You have more grey than black, now,” Lancelot said quietly. “And if you were to grow your beard in, it might be white.”

“Says the man with the wizard’s goatee,” Arthur answered, but smiled gently as he touched Lancelot’s greying beard. “And I’m not the only one with permanent lines, now.”

Lancelot’s curly hair was shot through with white, and only the hair that grew closest to Arthur’s skull was still totally dark. He had white temples, and his stubble was mostly white when he allowed it to grow.

They stared at their reflections, and Lancelot finally shook his head. “What men live as long as we, my Arthur?”

Arthur tossed Lancelot a wry grin and used one hand to thread his calloused fingers through Lancelot’s curls. “Not many.”

“I believe our annoyance with one another has kept us alive this long,” Lancelot added. “Gods forbid either of us get the last word in.”

Arthur laughed, kissed Lancelot’s forehead, and then his mouth.

“I’m not sure how I feel about that young man,” he said as they began to walk toward their suite of rooms.

Lancelot groaned. “Why do I have the feeling you’re speaking of Antonius Festus? Arthur, for Mithras’ sake, leave the boy alone. He’s a bit…soft,” Lancelot went on, “but Olivia loves him. And that’s what matters, yes?”

“But can he care for her? You know that she’s not as strong as Ligeia is,” Arthur protested as they entered the first part of their rooms. He removed his cloak and threw it over a chair.

Lancelot sat in another chair and unlaced his boots. “No, she’s not. But she’s no weakling. Arthur, give her the benefit of the doubt. With all the things those women have gone through, I’d be hard pressed to find a man who could have done that and still been sane.”

He kicked his boots to the side and slumped comfortably in the leather seat. “He’s not a knight, Arthur,” Lancelot added gently. “He’s not you or me. There’s not many people like us left. Thank the gods,” he finished, his dark eyes clouding. He rubbed at his greying beard.

Arthur walked to him and drew him up. He cupped Lancelot’s lined face in his hands, and met his gaze evenly.

“I know a few men who would be sane,” he said softly. “I know at least one.” Dropping one of his hands, Arthur touched it to Lancelot’s chest, and rubbed the spot over the scar that still haunted him.

One corner of Lancelot’s mouth rose, and he laid his head on Arthur’s shoulder. Raising his hand, he covered Arthur’s on his chest with his own.

“That is because I am old and stupid,” Lancelot murmured, smiling. “And I’d make you stay with me, even if I was the only one with a brain. Which, come to think of it, is actually the – ”

Arthur took his turn kissing Lancelot to make him be still.

Luckily for him, it worked.

*

Lancelot had the smarts to stay home the next morning, and when Arthur returned from seeing Olivia at lunchtime, he found Lancelot out among the apple trees, doing something Arthur hadn’t seen him do in quite a while.

He sat on an overturned barrel and watched as the other man went through a routine of movements Arthur barely remembered.

The short Spanish blades were still beautiful, oiled and taken care of as prized weaponry should be. They shone in the daylight; sparkling and flashing as Lancelot’s hands whirled them like they weighed nothing. Arthur knew just how heavy they were, and despite the fact he knew how long it had taken Lancelot to master them, he was still entranced by the magic that he felt while watching Lancelot wield them.

Finishing his move, Lancelot turned and faced Arthur. He was shirtless and sweating, and his face held a light that Arthur only saw every now and then.

“Not bad for an old man, hm?” he asked. He rotated his wrists. “I’ll have to remember that chopping wood actually does keep you in shape when winter comes and I want to kill you for making me do it.”

He picked up the swords and spun them in an arc. Arthur was instantly transported back in time, and he had to shut his eyes and swallow hard against the lump in his throat.

When he opened his eyes to look at Lancelot, the other man was engrossed in his training again.

Arthur stood quietly and moved passed him into the barn, looking in on his newest purchase.

The moon faced animals stared up at him, bleating and milling and generally being a nuisance. He reached out a hand and stroked the closest sheep to him, and dug his fingers into the wool on its back.

_What was it all for, if not for the reward of freedom?_

He shivered slightly, and forced himself to forget the past, and looked down at the sheep that was moving restlessly under his hand.

And around his legs. And over his feet.

“Shit! Lancelot!”

He sprinted for the door to the barn, but didn’t make it in time as suddenly, twenty rowdy, wooly, stinky, loudly baa-ing sheep were pushing past him and trampling on his feet as they did so, making for the freedom of the yard.

“Lancelot!” he yelled again, leaping over the last of the lambs that were following their mothers into the open. “Get the front gate!”

“Hm?” the distracted reply came, and Arthur swore again and pelted for the wooden barrier that kept any loose animals out of the front of his villa.

Too late.

“Shit! Shit,” he rasped as the sheep bleated happily and ran for it. “Jols!” Arthur bellowed, and the squire was there.

Arthur pointed, trying to get his words in order while he was still breathless, and Jols just nodded. The squire ran for the front, calling for some of the other householders to help him.

Arthur leaned over and rested his hands on his knees, his heart finally slowing. He watched in dismay as Jols and some of the others rounded up the annoyed sheep, and began to herd them back toward the rear of the house and the barn.

Lancelot ambled up to Arthur and cocked his head. “What were you yelling about? What are you doing – oh, good gods.”

He shouted laughter at the sight of Jols pushing and shoving the sheep and lambs toward the main gate. Arthur just snarled and waited until they were past and shut the gate, latching it securely.

“Thank you, Jols,” Arthur sighed, and the squire waved as he and two other men got the animals back into the barn.

Lancelot was crying with mirth, his swords in one hand, the other resting on his belly. Arthur rounded on him and put his hands on his hips.

“Where the fuck were you? You were closer to the gate,” he gestured angrily at it, “and if you had gotten there they wouldn’t have made it to the yard.”

“Arthur,” Lancelot chuckled, standing up straight, “if you hadn’t left the latch on their pen open, they wouldn’t have gotten loose in the first place. I’d say you’re to blame.”

He actually giggled, shaking his head. Arthur growled and wiped the sweat out of his eyes.

“At any rate,” Lancelot went on, not paying attention to Arthur’s growing ire, “remember how much I told you I love sheep?”

Arthur pulled a face. “I thought you said they were, and I quote, ‘the stupidest, stinkiest animals on Earth’.”

“Indeed,” Lancelot finished. “I stand by my statement. I’m going to bathe. I’ll see you later.” He laughed again and strode away toward the bathhouse, leaving Arthur frowning and embarassed in his wake.

*

Arthur was determined to have his sheep idea work. So determined, he had contacted some friends of his fathers and discussed lambing and shearing and so many bits and pieces of sheep “farming” that Lancelot decided he’d slit his own throat the next time Arthur so much as mentioned the word “wool.”

He sat in the very hot water of the bath, his eyes closed, his head throbbing. Mithras’ eyes, but he was old. His whole body ached, his wrists cracked each time he turned them, and he had bruises he had surely put on himself from his workout with his blades.

What had made him pick them up in the first place? That thought was troubling in and of itself.

He would make Arthur spar with him. No buts about it. They had both been soldiers for many years, and it was still sensible to keep one’s skills up to par. Especially when one had no other skills to speak of.

Lancelot frowned at that thought; he had skills. He was an excellent horseman – Arthur barely had time to eat much less take care of his animals – so he left that to Lancelot. He … chopped wood in winter. And he made excellent hot spiced wine during the cold months as well.

What else did Lancelot do but live off Arthur’s hospitality and grow complacent with his lack of having to fight for his life every day?

What would Lancelot’s family have thought of him? Of his living with another man, outside of Rome?

“Bah,” Lancelot spat, and shook his head. He raised his knees and wrapped his arms around them, wincing again at the tightness in his back.

“Fucking sheep, for pity’s sake,” he added, resting his forehead on his arms, inhaling the comforting steam from the pool.

He loved Arthur’s baths. He’d never in a million lifetimes admit it, but he had a feeling Arthur knew it anyway, and just chose wisely to keep his mouth shut.

Luckily for him.

Lancelot felt the other person’s presence before they spoke.

Arthur slid into the baths with him, and contemplated Lancelot’s crumpled posture. He cocked his head.

“Sore, are we?”

“Fuck you, Castus.”

Arthur laughed, and after dunking his head under the water, he moved to Lancelot’s side, and gathered the other man up in a loose embrace, his chest against Lancelot’s back. He rested his chin on Lancelot’s shoulder.

“You’re still magnificent to watch.” Arthur spoke quietly and truthfully.

“You’re dripping on me,” Lancelot said plainly, and Arthur sighed and shoved his wet hair back off his forehead.

“You’re in the baths, Lancelot. You’re going to get wet whether you want to or not,” he chided. He pressed a kiss to Lancelot’s still muscular upper arm, and lay his cheek on it. “What is bothering you so?”

Lancelot pulled out of Arthur’s embrace, and turned to face him. “What else do I do?”

Arthur made a sound and his brows drew together. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, oh befuddled one, what do I do? What do I do, here?” Lancelot spoke as if Arthur were hard of hearing, accentuating his words. He was frustrated and trying not to take it out on Arthur, but some habits were very hard to break. “What am I good for?”

“What are you…” Arthur trailed off. Surely the man wasn’t serious. Arthur couldn’t breathe without Lancelot, much less live or run his homestead the way he wanted to without him. “Are you joking?” he smiled brightly, but dropped it when Lancelot narrowed his eyes at him dangerously.

Arthur shook his head, and rested one of his calloused, overworked hands (he hated his hands; too thick and stubby and ugly now) on Lancelot’s knee that stuck up out of the water.

“You are good for me,” he said gently. He rubbed his thumb over Lancelot’s skin, the heat in the other man’s flesh inviting and familiar. “You are everything that’s good for and about me. What’s brought this on?”

He noticed a bruise on Lancelot’s arm, and suddenly remember what the other man had been doing earlier.

“Is this about the practice?” he asked. “We are different men, now, Lancelot. We lead different lives, and have different purposes. Just because you are not the same person you were ten years ago – ”

“I am the same person, Arthur,” Lancelot interrupted. His voice was somewhat chilly, which surprised Arthur. He stilled his hand.

“That’s the trouble. I am a soldier. What good am I here – if I cannot employ the thing that I was born to do?” Lancelot rubbed angrily at his temples. “What am I for, if not for that?”

“One day – you will see what I see in you,” Arthur replied, troubled. He paused as he thought. “What sort of answer would you have me give you? You are worthy of love, Lancelot. You are worthy of a life free of pain and fighting. You are good for whatever you choose to be good for. It’s not up to me to decide that for you.”

He frowned again. “And you were not born to be a soldier. That was forced upon you.”

“D’you remember something you said, a long time ago?” Lancelot asked abruptly. He took Arthur’s hand in his, and wound their fingers together. “Lancelot. We are knights. What other purpose do we serve if not for such a cause?”

“That was another lifetime,” Arthur shot back. The hair on the back of his neck stood up at Lancelot’s exact repetition of his words. He was shocked the other man remembered them.

“Another lifetime. I was also young, and wasn’t altogether so smart.”

“Arthur,” Lancelot admonished with a small smile, “you still aren’t.” He squeezed their fingers. “I just…what would my family think of me?”

Arthur gave him a puzzled look. “I think they’d be proud and overly happy you survived your indenture. I think they’d love you like they always did. I think you’d fit in just fine.” He glanced at their hands and pinched his lips together. He didn’t like it when Lancelot thought along those lines.

_What if he’s not satisfied with me?_

Arthur was surprised when Lancelot shook his head and blew out a breath. “Nevermind. I’m just old and not liking it. So, tomorrow – you will spar with me. No buts, Arthur,” he said, putting a hasty finger over Arthur’s complaining mouth. “The old men will spar, and we shall be sore, but we won’t lose our edge. And that is all I will hear about that.”

Despite Arthur being pleased he’d somehow avoided an argument, he pressed Lancelot once more. “What about your family? Would you like to try – ”

“No,” Lancelot answered. He and Arthur had had this conversation before. Each time Arthur tried to convince him to find his remaining sister – and each time Lancelot refused, on no uncertain terms. He barely spoke of her, except for a few times that Arthur could count on one hand, when Lancelot was in his cups and playing with the lion pendant he no longer wore daily.

Lancelot knew she had been married off to a lord of some sort, and had a vague notion of where she might live, but it had been too long – and the year he’d spent wandering in Sarmatia with Gawain and Galahad was an experience he’d like to forget.

Lancelot raised his eyes, and tugged on Arthur’s hand. The other man came to him with no argument, and as Lancelot surrounded himself with the familiar and desired feel and scent of Arthur’s flesh, he only felt a small pang of sorrow at the thought of his family.

And then Arthur’s lips were on his, and he thought of dark memories no more.


	2. Two

Lancelot’s slender frame was covered by Arthur’s larger one, and Arthur was sleeping the sleep of the well adjusted and loved.

While Lancelot did love Arthur, at the moment he wanted nothing more than for Arthur to get his fucking bulk off Lancelot and to allow him to sleep unmolested.

Shaking his head in consternation, Lancelot managed to gently maneuver Arthur off of him, and after kissing Arthur’s forehead – he did love the damn fool – slipped out of their bed and sprawled in a chair.

He was chilled and pulled on one of Arthur’s discarded tunics, then built up the fire. Arthur muttered but did not wake.

The reward of freedom.

What am I doing here, then?

Lancelot’s hand rose and grasped for the pendant that no longer lay on his chest. He looked down, surprised at his reaction, and sighing, rested his head on that hand instead. For the first time in an age, he allowed thoughts of his family to surface, and they filled him with sorrow.

Arthur is my family, now.

So why is that not enough?

Arthur didn’t wake, and Lancelot stared out of the window at the night sky. The Roman night sky.

He felt fidgety and anxious and sore and annoyed and old.

He passed the rest of the night in one of Arthur’s leather chairs, his fingers knotting and unknotting the fabric of his long tunic.

*

“How’s this?”

Lancelot fiddled with one of the daggers he kept in his boot for the umpteenth time, and steadfastly ignored Arthur’s question in favor of watching the passers by.

“For the love of pity, Lancelot, you were the one who wanted to do this. Why aren’t you helping me?”

Lancelot’s eyes snapped to Arthur and crinkled at the corners in mirth. “You sound like a crotchety old woman, Arthur. And as I told you, I don’t care what you buy. It was your idea to get more clothing.”

Arthur sputtered. “It was not my idea – you wanted me to spar with you, and therefore your fault I now have no good tunics left. Aside from the fact you sleep in all the ones that still fit.”

He groused under his breath and paid the tailor, who refrained from laughing at the two men, and promised Arthur’s new things within a fortnight. “Sir?” the tailor gestured at Lancelot, and when Lancelot approached him and gave him a few coins, Arthur’s eyebrows rose.

“What was that?” Arthur asked. Lancelot shrugged and eyed the one pre-made tunic and jacket Arthur had bought and changed into. He fingered the material and pronounced it serviceable, and then made for the inn where they had left their mounts.

“I ordered a new vest,” was all he would say, and Arthur let it drop when he noticed Lancelot’s pensive mood. The other man was more quiet than usual and had dark circles under his eyes; Arthur hadn’t seen Lancelot look that way in some time.

Arthur stopped the other man with a hand on his arm before they mounted up behind the inn.

“What is it?” he asked quietly. “I don’t like it when your eyes hold old shadows.” He cupped Lancelot’s face briefly. “Speak to me, my knight.”

Lancelot quirked a smile at Arthur’s name for him; he shook his head. “I believe I’ll need some wine to tell you all that’s vexing me. Rest assured, though, you’ll be sorry you asked once I don’t shut up.” He took Arthur’s hand in his and kissed Arthur’s knuckles, and clucked to his horse once he was in the saddle.

They rode almost all the way back to Arthur’s villa in silence; Arthur so busy working over what could be wrong with Lancelot that he didn’t see the caravan of tradesman until he had almost ridden into them.

“What’s this?” he asked Jols, dismounting. The squire took both Arthur and Lancelot’s horses and handed them off to a stable lad before answering.

“Tradesmen, sir. They’re riding through to the city. From the east,” he finished, putting emphasis on the last word.

Lancelot had already circled the group of men, women, babies, tents and jangling wares. Suddenly he barked out a phrase in his native tongue – Arthur nearly jumped in shock, as he hadn’t heard the language in many years.

One of the men, an older man with a long dark beard and his hair in fancy plaits, cocked his head. He approached Lancelot, and smiled at him strangely.

“A native of the eastern lands, I sense,” the man said in rusty Latin. He bobbed his head at Lancelot. “A plainsman?”

Lancelot’s face was white as he nodded, and his eyes were dark and wide as they tried to take in everything that had suddenly dragged him back to feeling like a fourteen year old boy riding behind his brothers and father in a place he’d almost forgotten.

Arthur walked up behind Lancelot and stood close by. He crossed his arms and bowed formally to the man, who was obviously the head of the group of travelers.

“Greetings, friend,” he said convivially, although he was confused and worried about what was happening. Just who were these people?

“I am Arthur Castus, and this is Lancelot ap Ban, and this is our home,” he said. “My squire says you’re headed to the city?” Arthur nodded towards Jols.

The dark bearded man jerked when Arthur spoke Lancelot’s family name. “ap Ban?” he asked. “Surely the Gods haven’t seen fit to bring me this far to only send to me exactly the right man.”

Lancelot’s brows drew together, and he touched the hilt of the dagger he wore at his waist. “How do you know my name? And who are you?”

The man grasped Lancelot’s arm in a soldier’s grip. “Forgive me, my friend. I am Bal, and this is my family,” he gestured toward the large group of milling people. Arthur waved to Jols, and asked the squire to get the visitors water and have the horses stabled for the evening. He wasn’t about to let this Bal go anywhere without finding out just how he knew Lancelot – from Sarmatia. Not from Britain.

“I am a tradesmen by birth and by choice – and I also hail from the plains of Sarmatia,” Bal said, his eyes crinkling with happiness. “By the Gods, but it is indeed fortunate that I have found you! I still can’t believe it was this easy. We are on the way to the glorious city of Rome,” he continued, “to ply our wares and to … deliver an old message.”

Lancelot was rapidly becoming annoyed at all the talking this man was doing, and the fact that he wasn’t answering any of Lancelot or Arthur’s questions. He grasped Bal by the upper arm, and marched him away from the large group of people.

Arthur started to follow, but Lancelot tossed a look back at him that made him stop.

Fuck.

Arthur moved to the milling family and was immediately surrounded by several women and multitudes of children, all clamoring for the attention of a wealthy landowner from Rome.

*

After making sure Jols had settled the large horde of people and gotten them food and drink, Arthur wandered to his orchard, where he sat on a barrel and gnawed at his thumb as he watched a few of the children playing in the dark with sticks and a few wooden toys they had found in the back of the stables.

Lancelot and Bal had disappeared shortly after Arthur had begun to see to the family, and Arthur hadn’t seen Lancelot or the trader since.

He tasted tangy blood and pulled his finger out of his mouth, sighing at the torn skin. If Lancelot didn’t turn up soon, Arthur would make his way to the baths and get ready for bed by himself.

Just what in the hell was going on? Who were these people? All Arthur could get out of the women and the few children that spoke enough Latin to understand him were the facts that the family had been traveling for four months from the plains, and Bal had been adamant about them looking for a man called “ap Ban” that supposedly lived outside of Rome before they went on to ply their trade in the city.

“Lord Castus,” a voice floated out of the dark, and Arthur stood. One of Bal’s women bowed to him. “Lord,” she said, “Bal and ap Ban are almost finished with their discourse. Would you join us for dinner – my sons are excellent hunters and cooks.”

Arthur nodded his head, and crooked a smile. “My lady, isn’t it usual for the home owner to have the meal? And please call me Arthur.”

The woman’s laughter was musical and light. “Very well, Arthur. And why change things? We are used to cooking for ourselves. Besides, I don’t want my sons going soft and begin to expect all Romans are this hospitable.”

Arthur laughed in return. “Very well, lady, ah…?”

“I am called Maryam,” the woman answered. She was young, a lot younger than Bal, and had dark eyes and light hair, which Arthur thought was a strange but enticing combination. “And if you would be so kind as to bring some wine…”

Arthur’s smile was brief but sincere. “I shall be there directly, lady.”

He waited until Maryam disappeared back into the gloom, and then strode off to the house.

Why in the fuck had Lancelot not come to find him himself?

He stayed silent as he dug through his wine cabinet, finding two wonderful Hibernian reds that had cost a handful in trade. But he thought they would go over the best.

Walking stiffly to his and Lancelot’s rooms, he shut the door behind him and leaned against it.  
What was going on – in his own home? In his and Lancelot’s home?

“Interesting day, hm?”

Arthur knew he was distracted by the very fact he hadn’t felt Lancelot’s presence in the room with him.

“Christ!” Arthur swore uncharacteristically, and made his way to Lancelot, stumbling slightly in his haste. He gathered the other man up in his arms and tucked his face in Lancelot’s neck.

“You scared the living hell out of me,” he admitted, slightly embarrassed at his overzealous reaction at seeing Lancelot again. “What is going on?”

Arthur had said or thought that phrase so many times in the past few hours that it felt dirty on his tongue. He loathed indecision and confusion, still, after so many years of leadership, and so many years of just being himself.

Lancelot’s body was stiff and tight but he slid his own arms around Arthur’s middle and sighed into Arthur’s hair. He spoke quietly, his voice muffled by its proximity to Arthur’s face.

“Long story. Long, confusing, fucking strange story,” he said. He shuddered once and breathed deeply of Arthur’s scent, calming somewhat after being held by the older man for a few moments.

Arthur didn’t ask any questions; he merely held onto Lancelot’s slender frame until Lancelot wasn’t so stiff and jerky with his movements. Arthur pressed his lips to Lancelot’s neck several times, reassuring himself that Lancelot was actually there.

“I can’t breathe, Arthur,” Lancelot laughed softly; Arthur mumbled an apology and backed off. He touched Lancelot’s familiar sharp face and then sat back on the bed, giving the other man some room.

Lancelot’s eyes glittered in the gloom of their quarters, and he sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face and hair. His mouth worked a few times, he blew out a snort, and fiddled with the knee of his trousers.

Arthur knew better than to push. He waited, his knuckles white from the effort of not saying anything or asking questions.

“This man knew my father.”

Arthur was dumbstruck. “He knew….”

“My father. Yes. Ban and his wife, Roxanna, my mother.” Lancelot’s face took on an expression Arthur hadn’t seen in longer than he could remember.

An expression of longing.

It scared him. But he didn’t say anything, and gestured for Lancelot to speak.

Lancelot hesitated, then laughed roughly. “Gods. I haven’t spoken their names in at least fifteen years.”

“More like twenty,” Arthur said quietly. “I don’t think I’ve heard you speak of them in at least that long.”

He touched Lancelot’s hand, his fingers twining with the other man’s slightly trembling ones. The small shaking stopped almost immediately after Arthur’s hand held Lancelot’s.

“Lancelot,” Arthur spoke, “if you don’t want to tell me this yet, you don’t have to. I can see how hard it is.”

Arthur thought he’d have to bite his own tongue for want of knowing the whole story, but he wouldn’t force Lancelot to say anything he didn’t want to.

They didn’t do that to each other anymore. Mostly.

Instead of answering, Lancelot drew a piece of paper out from inside his tunic. He handed it to Arthur.

“Read this. I don’t think I can go over it again,” Lancelot spoke tiredly. He withdrew from Arthur’s touch and moved to the same leather chair he’d spent most of the evening in a few nights previous.

Arthur opened the piece of vellum; the writing was spidery and the paper had obviously been folded many times.

Lancelot ap Ban.

Following Lancelot’s name was a description of him, down to the arrogant smirk and arched eyebrows. Arthur had to smile once.

My brother.

Forgive my delay in contacting you.

I know you must be shocked to hear from me, and believe me, I wouldn’t have sought you out were it not for the fame that has spread in our land of the valiant Sarmatian warriors that defended the Wall in Britain.

I cannot write, so I am relying on my household scribe to take down my words, and pray that he gets across the importance of what I have to say.

To make it short and to the point –

My husband has been dead these five years. He left me and your niece, Farrin, comfortable and happy in our home on the border of the Black Sea.

Our neighbor, a warrior of some ill repute, came to me several weeks ago and demanded payment on a “debt” my husband owed him. I had no knowledge of a debt, and when the man, Ebrahim, tried to take me as reparations, I refused him.

He took Farrin instead, holding my householders at knife point while I was at market, killing Farrin’s nurse.

I need my daughter, brother. She is the only thing I have left of my husband, and by the Gods, I would rather sacrifice myself and her than see her destroyed and defiled by this Ebrahim. I would rather chance the Gods’ wills and try to find you for help than lose her.

I give this letter to our old family friend, Bal, in hopes that he will see it to you in Rome and that you will consider helping me, even though I did nothing to help you all those years ago when the soldiers of the Empire came and took you from us.

I beg you to come find me. This Bal will be able to give you the location of my home. Please, my brother, my forgotten Lancelot, I need you now.

I remain, your ever faithful little sister,

Lily.

Arthur’s head rose when he finished the letter. He set it down gently on the bed, and met Lancelot’s gaze.

“Gawain’s sister knew of me,” Lancelot said quietly. “Apparently she and Lily are acquaintances, and remembered Gawain and Galahad speaking of me when they last visited. Some years ago, if you’ll recall.”

“God, Lancelot, it’s been…two years?” Arthur replied hesitantly. “How long has Bal had this letter?”

“Nine months,” Lancelot’s voice was sharp enough to cut diamonds. “She’s probably dead by now.”

His hand rose and played with the collar of his tunic, but Arthur knew that’s not what he was searching for.

“She gave you the pendant?” Arthur asked, and moved to stand at the window, in front of Lancelot’s chair, and rested his buttocks on the sill. He crossed his arms and tried not to look disheartened.

A crooked smile graced Lancelot’s lined face. “She did.”

“It was hers?” Arthur pressed. “You never told me that.”

Lancelot met Arthur’s eyes, but didn’t answer. He looked over Arthur’s shoulder and out at the moon, which was full and shining brightly into their room.

“I have to go to her, Arthur,” he finally said.

Arthur’s eyes slid shut; he knew, had known what Lancelot would do from the first sentence of the letter.

“Then we shall leave in the morning,” Arthur said, his eyebrows drawing together as Lancelot shook his head and stood, his face a mask of sorrow.

Oh, Lancelot. No, you fucking don’t. Arthur opened his mouth to speak, but Lancelot’s hurtful words came first.

“Arthur, no. This is something I need to do. Please, you have to understand,” Lancelot’s voice sped up as Arthur began to make huffing, confused noises. “My family’s problems are not something you can help me with. She asked for me, for me, to help her. I believed my family thought I was dead, and gladly.” He took Arthur’s arms in his hands, but Arthur shook him off.

“How can you even think that I can’t help you? How could you think I’d let you go home and not be there with you? Lancelot, Jesu.” Arthur’s voice was tight and angrily controlled. His eyes were shining with unshed moisture. Fuck – he hadn’t felt like this because of Lancelot in forever.

He’d thought he never would again.

“How could you think I wouldn’t want to be involved? You were taken from your lands and your childhood destroyed because of my home,” he continued, his words more and more broken as Lancelot didn’t answer. He couldn’t fully believe they were having this conversation again, after so many years. “How could you even contemplate going alone?”

Lancelot turned from the other man and bit at his lip. Why couldn’t Arthur see his side? Lancelot’s family was an enigma; something he’d thought gone from him forever. He only had their memory to hold in his heart. He had to do this, his way. No matter how things had changed, no matter that Lancelot had grown into a man he could be proud of, with Arthur at his side.

But…it was his family. Not something he’d borrowed or gotten because of Arthur, or Rome, or his status as a soldier. His family, his sister needed his help. Not the might of Rome. Not the sword of Lucius Artorius Castus. His Lily needed his help.

His family.

“Arthur. You have to listen to me on this. You may not understand it, but this is my choice. My family. My decision – Bal will show me the way,” he continued to talk over Arthur’s wordless objections, the older man having sunk into one of the leather chairs, his face a white, featureless facade. It broke Lancelot’s heart to see Arthur’s eyes, flat, devoid of the spark they usually held, eyes that were normally so familiar and remembered that Lancelot had to crouch in front of Arthur to finish his words. Arthur had to understand.

“Arthur, look at me,” Lancelot said, his tone brooking no argument. Arthur turned his gaze slowly to Lancelot, and what was left of Lancelot’s heart shattered again.

Even that didn’t change his mind.

“I love you. Don’t doubt that. But … you had your family, at least for a while. You knew how they died, even though it was hard, so hard for you.” He was rapid-firing words at Arthur, whose fists were clenched in his lap. On impulse Lancelot picked one up and pressed his mouth to the speeding pulse.

“I have to know,” he finished, his voice a harsh whisper. “You will let me do this. You have no choice, my friend. Meus amare,” he sighed, his Latin rusty. They spoke their habitual British dialect at home – never having fallen out of the habit.

Arthur watched Lancelot speak, no words able to come to his lips, nothing that would change Lancelot’s mind. He – they – were past this type of behavior, or at least he had thought they were.

Just like him to believe in something, only to have it ripped away and beaten to a lifeless pulp, reminding him in a most painful way that life wasn’t what he dreamed it would be.

But…his Lancelot.

“Please,” Arthur spoke the single word, his hand gripping Lancelot’s.

“No,” came the answer. Arthur nodded once, and then stood, dropping Lancelot’s fingers.

“Excuse me,” Arthur said woodenly, “but I need to see to the guests. They requested some wine, and I need to give them my regrets for supper.” He moved to the door, opened it, and was gone before Lancelot could do more than take two breaths.

A few heartbeats after Arthur left, Lancelot rose, and made his way on sure feet to a small chest that lived underneath Arthur’s side of their bed.

He pulled it out, and without hesitation, lifted the lid, and removed a few things that sat in the box. He paused once, holding a small iron crucifix in his hand that Arthur had worn so often in Britain that Lancelot had been certain the shape of the thing had been traced into Arthur’s skin.

He set it on top of the bed, and after a few more seconds of looking, he found the item he was searching for.

Slipping the pendant over his head, he put the chest back in its rightful place and exited the room, intent on finding Bal, his only desire to get things for the journey ready and to put things right for himself, and his family.

There was a spring in his step, and as he passed the electrum mirror, he saw not the grey hair and beard of a retired soldier, but the unlined face and shining eyes of a boy that had never left the plains of the open sky and high grass.

He left the crucifix sitting on Arthur’s bed, completely forgotten.


	3. Chapter 3

The stables were quiet, and Lancelot had to refrain from whistling as he packed up his mount, the work familiar and calming. Thank the gods, but the sheep were asleep, as were most of the other animals.

Bal’s group of travelers had left a few moments before, the older man saying he wanted to hurry and get to the “glorious” city of Rome as soon as he was able, now that his message had been delivered.

He’d provided Lancelot with a crude but perfectly effective map, the quickest routes to avoid brigands, and a huge hug which had all but crushed Lancelot’s spine.

“You are doing the right thing, son of the Black Sea,” Bal had told Lancelot before mounting up. “Your sister, wherever she may be now, deserves your presence, and your best attempt.”

He’d taken his family and ridden away, and despite the annoyance of having someone who barely knew him giving him advice, Lancelot appreciated the sentiment.

That was unusual.

Dawn was coming, and as it got closer, Lancelot began to feel nervous and jerky. He finished his packing, saddled his horse and made sure the small provisions he’d gathered were ready and wrapped in cloth to help slow their deterioration. He felt for his pendant, and stroked the lion through the linen of his tunic.

_No._

Lancelot stilled, and watched the sky through the small windows in the stables. Twenty-five years was a long time to know someone. It was a long time to love someone, and have them love you.

Had he done the right thing?

Would Arthur be able to forgive him? What if he didn’t make it back?

Could _Lancelot_ live with that? Could he live with dying or … _staying_ … and never seeing Arthur again? After all he’d gone through to find him?

He shut his eyes, and rested his forehead in his hand. He loved the other man, more than the dawn, more than the air he breathed, more than his blades, more than his horse, more than his life.

More than his forgotten family?

_Was Arthur really not going to try and stop him?_

“Bah,” he spat, and tugged on his leather jacket, the studded, heavier pieces falling to mid thigh. He led his mount out to the yard, and after a moment, wrapped the strands of the bridle around a post.

He couldn’t leave without saying anyth –

“The loft is still somewhat comfortable to sleep in, when you want to make sure you don’t miss someone leaving by horse.”

Lancelot jerked and then rolled his eyes, but his heart thudded quickly a few times before he could calm himself.

_He came._

Arthur appeared in the pre-dawn light, a slight haze on the ground still. He was leading his own horse, and had the stallion kitted out similarly to Lancelot’s horse. He was dressed in all black leathers, and Lancelot was suddenly shocked by just how different Arthur looked from Lancelot’s mental _idea_ of him.

It wasn’t something that was bad; but Lancelot had to shake his head. _How long have I been seeing him in that red cloak?_

_Do I love him more than them? Do I love him enough to allow him to help me with this?_

Lancelot caught Arthur’s eyes, and in that moment, his mind rested, and he was young and full of fire and no fear and no baggage, and the only thing that mattered was the love and loyalty of this man in front of him.

Yes, he loved Arthur enough.

Arthur approached Lancelot, and despite his seeming bravado, his stomach was eating itself inside out. He’d been trying to rest in the stables since their argument, waiting where he knew Lancelot would come, stopping only once by their rooms when he’d decided for sure to _make_ Lancelot allow him to join him. Arthur would have followed him regardless.

The crucifix he hadn’t worn since Britain he’d found on their bed, and he’d picked it up, fingering the iron, watching the firelight flickering on the simple metal. His mind started to whirl with thoughts and possibilities, and he shoved the thing in one of his pockets, not willing to think on it yet. He’d ask Lancelot later – although he knew why Lancelot had been in that box under the bed frame.

He bit his lip, and shrugged as he came within arms distance of Lancelot.

“I will not let you do this alone,” he said in a soft but stern voice. Lancelot hadn’t heard that tone in a long time. He cracked a smirk at Arthur, and Arthur took his turn to roll his eyes.

“Never did lose that command, did you?” Lancelot answered, stepping closer to Arthur. “Never could learn to leave that voice behind.” He was inches from Arthur’s face. He crossed his arms and raised one eyebrow. He tried to be stern, but having made up his mind, he had a feeling Arthur could read his actions all too easily. He was still a master at the straight face, though, and waited with easy breath for Arthur’s answer.

Arthur wanted to refuse to rise to the bait, but Lancelot’s arrogant expression and his words of earlier made it damn hard. He cocked his head, and stepped just a tad closer.

“You never learned to look beyond it, did you?” he replied calmly. He was beginning to fill with anger on the inside, and with indignation, with hurt, and with overarching _love_ that hit him like a mallet in the face. He _needed_ Lancelot to want him to come.

Looking into Lancelot’s dark eyes, he saw a glimmer of teasing there – but it flashed by so fast, Arthur wasn’t quite sure enough for his own satisfaction. He took a breath, and let it out slowly. _You’re not young, stupid soldiers anymore, Castus. He loves you. He came here for you, even after all that you did to him. Believe him. Listen to him._

He reached out a hand and cupped Lancelot’s cheek gently, in spite of his words. “See me now, Lancelot. Just me. If you love me as much as I you, then you will let me follow you, as I always have done. As I always will do, until death grips me.”

Fucking shit, but the damn man always could _talk._

Lancelot dropped his head and shut his eyes, believing finally, and then laid one hand on Arthur’s arm. “Then follow me, my heart, but understand that I do this for _me_ , for my family, and for my memories. Not for you, or for some notion of idealism that you think you have burned into me. Fucking Roman.” His words were quiet and very like that young, unsure conscript, vulnerability and desire warring with his sense of self-preservation.

He laughed then, the sound brittle and full of the part of his soul that belonged to Arthur, pushing away the old wounds like so much ash. He raised his head and met the other man’s glittering gaze.

_Always Arthur._

“I wouldn’t presume,” Arthur spoke. He leaned forward and gently brushed his lips over Lancelot’s. “ _My_ heart.”

Lancelot shut his eyes again, and gripped Arthur’s arm until his knuckles were white. He kissed the other man back simply, and when he pulled away, he cuffed at his eyes to rid them of what he hoped was the morning fog.

He moved to his horse and mounted, then waited until Arthur had done the same. He unwrapped the bridle leads and clucked to his stallion.

Jols had appeared as well, and Arthur conferred with him one last time before they rode out, handing him a few rolls of paper as a last command.

As they headed out the main gate, Lancelot stopped by where Jols stood. He leaned over, and touched the man’s shoulder.

“Get rid of the sheep,” he said in a loud whisper, and laughed with the squire as Arthur made an offended sound.

As they gained the front yard, Lancelot rode next to Arthur briefly. “What did you give him?” he asked, referring to the papers Arthur had handed over.

“Notes for Ligeia and for Olivia,” Arthur answered. “My notes for the wedding.” He pulled a face at Lancelot’s small laugh. “They _asked_ for my help, you bastard. Leave it.”

Lancelot shook his head. He still felt tremulous and strange, and wasn’t sure if he was all right with Arthur coming along, no matter what he’d said. But…the man truly was his heart. He’d be forever swamped by grief if he had ridden away without Arthur.

“What else was there?” he asked Arthur suddenly. There had been more than a few pieces of parchment.

Arthur gazed over Lancelot’s shoulder at the slowly rising sun. He wet his lips. 

“My will,” he finally answered. Not waiting for Lancelot’s answer, he gigged his horse and spurred the stallion into a gallop as they reached the road.

Lancelot stared after Arthur’s speeding form, shocked into silence for once.

After a moment, he spurred his mount after the other man, cursing softly under his breath.

*

They made good time that day, stopping twice to water and cool their horses down. Arthur attempted to get Lancelot to eat something, but the Sarmatian was too nervous to do more than pace and wait as the animals drank their fill and rested.

Arthur tolerated it, but if Lancelot hadn’t calmed by evening, well…he’d think of a way to distract him. Arthur wasn’t sure what it said about his sanity by his choosing to willingly come this far and on a trip this long with a jumpy, sarcastic, impatient old soldier.

He smiled gently as he watched Lancelot talk to himself and walk. Arthur sat against a tree, and as he bit into an apple, he shut his eyes briefly against the brightness of the sun. When he opened them, Lancelot had shining, dark hair, his body was lithe and quick and he was staring at Arthur with intense, black eyes that sucked up anything of Arthur that hadn’t already belonged to Lancelot in the first place.

The young man smiled brightly, and Arthur blinked.

“Castus. Honestly. The animals are ready. Can you lift your old bulk and _let’s get a move on, for Mithras’ sake._ ”

Hair shot through with grey, lines grooved into skin next to the still generous lips, shadows in the dark eyes, an older man’s beard.

“Lead on, heart,” Arthur sighed, and rose. “You know I’d follow.”

Lancelot snorted and swung himself up into his saddle. He groaned and rubbed his hip, where the scar from almost ten years previous still bothered him.

“Aye, I know. Shows just how smart you are,” Lancelot retorted, but Arthur forgave him when Lancelot flashed a white smile.

They moved on, Arthur more convinced than ever he’d get Lancelot to fucking _eat_ and at least pretend to sleep once they stopped for the night.

*

The moon rose fat and full and had been showing for several hours when they at last stopped.

The horses were rubbed down and fed before their riders finally sat and broke their own fast. Arthur stretched out his legs and pulled off his boots immediately, groaning at the sight of his red feet.

“You bastard,” he commented cheerfully as Lancelot dragged their bags over, foraging for some of the food they’d packed. He came up with more apples, cheese, some bread, and a full jug of wine. Arthur perked up considerably at that.

“Why call me such sweet names, Arthur?” Lancelot replied, blinking in what he hoped was an innocent way, mouth full of bread and fruit. He took a large swig of wine and handed the jug to Arthur, who liberally whetted his own thirst.

“Look at my feet,” Arthur complained, but his smile ruined his words. “I can’t say I’m sorry that I don’t wear these things much any more. It’s nice to work in the orchard, barefoot.”

He laughed and drank more wine, then ate some of his own bread and cheese.

He shifted on the ground, closing the distance between them, when something _clunked_ out of his pocket.

The crucifix.

Arthur had noticed the lump around Lancelot’s neck, the lion pendant standing out even under the leather jacket the man was wearing. He sighed, and picked up the dropped cross.

“I found this on the bed,” he said. Lancelot raised his eyebrows and kept eating.

“…and?” he prompted when Arthur was quiet. 

After a moment, Arthur rolled his lips inward, and shoved the thing back in his pocket. “And I don’t want to think you left it there deliberately.”

Lancelot laughed roughly and swallowed his food. “Arthur, how long have you known me? And how long have you known that I’m not patient enough to be that devious? I remember seeing it, yes. But I thought only of what I needed out of that box.”

He fingered his pendant, and reached for the wine. “I remember you wearing that,” he added, pointing at Arthur’s pocket where the crucifix was stashed. “I hated it.”

Sighing, Arthur scooted on his ass until he was leaning against Lancelot, absorbing some of the other man’s warmth. “If I learned nothing else in the twenty-five or so years that I’ve known you, it’s to not have this discussion. Especially when I thought we were past it.”

Arthur wasn’t sure where he stood on his religion _still_ , even after the death of Pelagius and his fallout with Rome and the Church, but he wasn’t telling Lancelot that. He had a feeling Lancelot knew anyway. 

Lancelot swallowed the last of his food and slid his arm around Arthur’s waist. He turned in to Arthur’s heat and shut his eyes. “I’m not interested in ‘discussing’ it, Arthur,” he answered. “I’m just remembering. Surely you do that.”

Arthur embraced him with one arm even as he was thinking of his ‘vision’ of earlier of a young Lancelot, worry free and unburdened by the complicated thing that was _them_.

Selfishly, he’d never give Lancelot up now. Not for anything, not for the peace that would come with reconciliation in regards to his faith, not for his life, not for anything.

He’d rather they fought forever and still spend every night together then have one hour of religious understanding.

“Of course,” he answered vaguely. He was getting distracted by Lancelot’s closeness; the scent of the road combined with sweat and leather and _Lancelot_ was something Arthur thought he’d never tire of.

He pushed his face into Lancelot’s neck and snuffled gently, then nuzzled at the large tendon that stood out there, his tongue licking lightly at Lancelot’s salty skin.

A low laugh rumbled out of the younger man’s throat. “Out in the open? Surely you of all people would be too modest.” He tightened his grip at Arthur’s waist, however, and canted his head back so Arthur would have better access to his neck.

“Don’t you remember last harvest? The middle of the field? I seem to recall someone luring me to the stash of wine casks…” Arthur smiled against Lancelot’s jaw, and kissed the large group of muscles near his ear. “Neither of us was too modest then.”

Another vibration of Lancelot’s chest with his laughter. He turned so he was facing Arthur, and moved to sit astride Arthur’s lap. He threaded his fingers into Arthur’s silver-shot hair, and brushed his mouth over Arthur’s forehead, and the deep grooves there.

“I also recall a certain Roman chasing me with threats of eviction were I to not…how did you put it? Satisfy the urge I’d forced upon you?”

Arthur blushed and shook his head, a smile flitting across his face. He settled his hands on Lancelot’s hips.

“You do bring out the worst in me,” he answered, and rubbed lazy patterns on Lancelot’s thigh. He leaned forward and nosed into the small gap left by the few laces that were undone on Lancelot’s tunic.

He kissed the exposed skin, and dropped his wandering hand to Lancelot's groin, a small squeeze eliciting a nice wiggle and gasp from the man on his lap.

Most of their time in Britain like this had been quick to fill a need, or angry, hurtful sex that left both of them confused and wanting something that neither of them was ready to give in to at the time.

The past ten years had proved to be so different that Arthur still didn’t know if he was dreaming or not when they spent time together like this.

Even if it was on the ground in the open, with their horses nickering close by, a small fire burning, a jug of wine and the stars overhead.

Even if? If only.

“I don’t know if I can let you fuck me on the ground,” Lancelot murmured into Arthur’s hair, his arms wound around Arthur’s neck as Arthur teased Lancelot's neck and chest with his mouth. His fingers were sending a pleasant insistent tingle along Lancelot’s nerves; Lancelot’s body certainly never tired of Arthur’s touch regardless of how Lancelot _felt_.

He laughed as he felt Arthur’s face heat. “My back, you know, heart, isn’t what it once was,” he teased. “But if you hold me here…”

Lancelot’s fingers unlaced Arthur’s breeches with practiced ease, and with a few strokes had Arthur begging for whatever Lancelot would give him. Their lips met softly, Lancelot whispering quiet Sarmatian words that Arthur had long since given up trying to understand.

Lancelot freed his own body from his leathers quickly and pushed them out of the way, his lean legs finding familiar spots on Arthur’s thighs, just as his arms and his mouth found their places on Arthur’s skin as well.

The cool night air on their bodies was rapidly dispelled by the sweat and heat from their union. Arthur’s lower back protested and his legs cramped from the strange terrain he sat on, but he didn’t care.

Lancelot threw his head back as he always did, his release coming mere seconds before Arthur’s as the other man's thumb brushed over the sensitive tip of Lancelot’s erection. His eyes shut tightly, Lancelot breathed only _Arthur_ and crashed over the edge. 

Arthur’s name was called, and the still blazing heat that was _Lancelot_ tightened around Arthur’s flesh, the muscles shifting and allowing for deeper penetration. Arthur cried out and cursed, the other man’s name the final thing on his lips.

He slammed his head against the tree they were leaning against, and he saw stars, but that might have been from Lancelot. He wasn’t sure.

They lay wrapped tightly around each other, bare except for their bed rolls and each other’s skin.

“The gods got a good show,” Lancelot said just as Arthur was about to drift off.

Arthur smiled into the dark. “Don’t even think your bare ass is better than mine.”

His smile broadened. He loved that he could still make Lancelot laugh like that.

They slept, although Lancelot woke once, and retrieved his discarded pendant. He wrapped the leather securely around his hand, lay his head back on Arthur’s chest, and did not dream.

~tbc.


	4. Chapter 4

Normally, Lancelot knew Arthur would have been the first one awake, up to heat the cider or to start his day with doing something silly in the orchard like chopping wood or collecting apples – something stupid enough to cause Lancelot to roll his eyes and to question again just _why_ he loved Arthur.

When Arthur rolled over, stiff from his night on the ground, his first sight was of Lancelot, fully dressed and seated next to him, his knees folded up and his arms wrapped around them.

Arthur sighed, and sat up. “Ready, are we?”

“Gods, but you’re lazy,” Lancelot retorted, and sprang to his feet. He had woken sore and tired and worried. “The sun’s almost up. Aren’t you the one who’s always awake before dawn, doing some ridiculous chore or planning for the day?” 

Arthur noted the other man’s tone, but didn’t respond. He struggled to his feet and tugged on his leathers, his back pinching and feeling the ache that sleeping in the chilly outdoors had caused.

As he waited for Arthur to dress, Lancelot went over the map Bal had left him. He knew where they were going, he thought. He was angry and not a bit ashamed that he couldn’t quite figure out the route _exactly_.

The trip to Britain as a boy conscript had not been pleasant. The trip back to Sarmatia after his term had ended hadn’t been so long ago, but it had been even less enjoyable, Lancelot’s mind having been on Arthur and their cold parting. He’d followed the old tracks that he’d remembered once he’d crossed the water, with the help of locals and his rusty memory of the area his people were from.

They were coming at his home from a different direction this time, granted, but he should have at least had some understanding of where they were going. It made his head ache to realize he didn’t.

He glanced at Arthur again, who was eating and tugging on his tunic at the same time, and Lancelot suddenly remembered something. Perhaps it was the motion of Arthur’s body, or his face….

_“Why do you always do this?”_

_Lancelot had stormed after Arthur, the goblet he’d been holding dropping in his haste to catch Arthur. They ended up in the orchard, Arthur turning to face Lancelot, a snarl on his face. It was a strange sight._

_“Do what? Take responsibility? Feel things?”_

_Lancelot had spat and shoved at Arthur. “Shoulder the troubles of the world. What good will it do him now, Arthur? He’s dead, for the love of shit!”_

_Arthur threw up his hands and yelled out a wordless curse. “Yes! And it was my horse he was trying to stop! He was one of my householders, damn it! He worked for me – and that makes him my responsibility.”_

_They had stared at each other, both breathing heavily, with fists clenched. At last Arthur lowered his head. “Lancelot. I care because I do. I cannot explain it any more than that.” He dropped to sit on an overturned barrel close by, and shut his eyes._

_Lancelot shook his head and knelt at Arthur’s feet. “And yet you poison your heart because you cannot sieve through the hurts that face you every day. You will die an early death, my Arthur. Learn to close yourself off when you can. I have told you this forever. Why will you not listen?”_

_Arthur had looked at him, and had taken Lancelot’s hands in his own. Pressing a weary kiss to the palms, he sighed. “I can’t. And I know you know that. And somewhere, you … admire it, or need it, because you’d have left me long ago if you truly felt the way you say you do.”_

_Lancelot had opened his mouth to retort but then had shut it._

His eyes snapped back to Arthur as the other man finished dressing, his boots on and his face slightly apprehensive as he turned to Lancelot.

“I am ready,” Arthur said simply.

Lancelot realized just _why_ he’d changed his mind about bringing Arthur along.

The two of them were not whole without the other – and despite their flaws – actually, because of them, really – they worked only together.

Separately they were both disasters. Lancelot knew that only too well.

Rolling his lips inward, Lancelot brought his fingers to the bridge of his nose and pinched until the threat of headache passed.

He loathed self realization, even after so many years of loving Arthur, and being forced by him to look deeper into himself.

It made him angry, and ashamed all at once.

He looked up, and met Arthur’s worried gaze. “As am I, Arthur. I think we can make it twenty miles today. Don’t you?”

The corner of Lancelot’s mouth crooked upward and he held out Arthur’s packed saddlebag for the other man. Arthur took it, and then smiled in return. Lancelot breathed out when he saw the shadows in Arthur’s green eyes fade mostly away.

“Twenty five,” was his reply, and Lancelot laughed as Arthur winced while mounting his stallion.

“Braggart,” Lancelot smirked, and then missed his stirrup the first time, his mind and eyes only on the man that sat astride the horse next to his.

Lancelot pointed a stiff finger at Arthur as he managed to mount up, and narrowed his gaze. Arthur shrugged and wound his reins around his hands.

“I didn’t say anyth-”

“Good thing, too,” Lancelot interrupted through tight teeth, and ignored Arthur’s laugh as they rode out, leaving ashes from their fire and dust in their wake.

*

Arthur was stiffer than he’d ever remembered when they pulled up that night at a nameless village near the border of one of the rivers that they’d have to cross by ferry. The larger Danube was still a few days ride away.

Arthur’s body was a walking bruise, and despite Lancelot’s mood being decent throughout the long ride, he had been silent most of the day, only checking his map and stopping to piss twice. He hadn’t wanted to eat and Arthur’s stomach was raw from the thoughts he’d worried on all day.

Luckily the small town had one place that had rooms for the night above a tavern. Arthur stabled their horses and procured lodgings while Lancelot stood outside, frowning as he studied the map and occasionally poked at it as he murmured to himself in the Sarmatian dialect Arthur had forgotten many years before.

“I’m in desperate need of some food,” he told Lancelot, who grunted at him and continued to eyeball his sheet of vellum. 

“I could have sworn there were three rivers,” he said, not looking up. Arthur bit his lip and forced himself to not get angry with the other man. This was a huge thing Lancelot was doing; Arthur didn’t want to make him sorry he’d agreed to let Arthur come along.

Not like Arthur wouldn’t have followed him regardless, but….

“Lancelot,” Arthur sighed at last. “Inside, yes? You can read better with torch light.”

He steered his companion into the tavern and found a table, then got the attention of a young woman who brought them some ale and bread.

Lancelot stared at the map until he thought his eyes would cross. In an unexpected move, he spat a curse and shoved the thing away.

Arthur cocked an eyebrow but merely continued to eat. After a moment he used the toe of his boot to gently touch Lancelot’s calf.

“Eat something, Lancelot, or you’ll waste away to nothing. What kind of help would you be to Lilith then?”

“Lily,” Lancelot corrected tiredly, but picked up some bread and smeared it messily with honey and butter. He made a show of eating as his eyes watched Arthur.

“Lilith is her name, actually,” he added when he’d swallowed. “I called her Lily. She was tiny and slender, but strong. Like the flower.”

Arthur took a drink of his ale and slid his hand under the table, resting it on Lancelot’s knee. He squeezed once, and removed it. More time for tenderness later. He hoped.

“My brothers and I teased her _mercilessly_ for years. She was the youngest. So solemn, always,” Lancelot mused, and ate another bite of bread. The maidservant reappeared and brought them some stew as well. Arthur lit up and began to eat in earnest, not wanting to speak for fear of Lancelot shutting down. Lancelot hadn’t spoken of his family in this detail before, ever.

“She did teach me how to catch the winged insects that seemed to always follow our camps.” Lancelot’s face was draped in shadow from the firelight on the walls, but Arthur could see that he was remembering the details easily. He pushed Lancelot’s bowl of stew toward the other man, and sighed when Lancelot began to eat as he spoke.

“Those huge green things? They make a buzzing noise. Have you seen them? I recall them in Britain, but not here,” Lancelot’s voice was meandering and exhausted, and Arthur smiled softly at the sight. He ached for his lover, he really did. Lancelot had never been one for being open or for even acknowledging family much. Arthur knew Lancelot had been broken in some way when he’d returned home after his service in Britain was done, but Lancelot hadn’t told him all the details. All that Arthur knew was that Lancelot’s brothers were either dead or married and traveled far away, and Lancelot only had the one sister left to call his own.

It meant more than Arthur could say that Lancelot had trusted him to share in this journey, especially to someone who no had family to belong to, apart from the piece of his soul that sat across from Arthur. 

The only darkness that Arthur hadn’t been able to push away was the thought that this trip might not end up the way Lancelot desired. Arthur had had that thought a few times – but hadn’t shared it with the other man. He wasn’t in the mood for a beating, at any rate.

“Why did you leave your will with Jols?”

Arthur’s gaze snapped from Lancelot’s mouth to his eyes, which were suddenly alert and dangerously narrow. To delay answering, Arthur took the last bite of his stew and drank from his mug.

Lancelot’s eyebrows rose and he too used the toe of his boot to touch Arthur’s calf – but not gently. “Why, Arthur?”

Arthur sighed, but didn’t want to hide things from Lancelot. Not things like this.

“Because I am not certain how things will go, Lancelot,” he answered truthfully. “I want Jols and the others to have what they need should I not return.” He sat up straighter and met Lancelot’s gaze firmly.

“I want Ligeia and Olivia cared for,” he added simply. “I want them to have my home and my income if they need it. I know you have a place ….” He stopped.

Lancelot pushed his forgotten food to the side. He folded his map and put it in the pocket of his jacket. He leaned forward. “I will never leave you,” he said quietly. “Not alone, not to die, and, besides, why would you even worry about that? You have me to watch your back, as I have done for uncountable years. As I will do.”

He smiled and sat back, but the expression didn’t reach his brown eyes.

Arthur opened his mouth to say something, but shut it. This was new territory for them – and for once, he didn’t know _what_ to say. His stomach ached suddenly and he was worried – this was important – they did need to discuss it.

But, Lancelot didn’t seem to _want_ to discuss the future further, especially scenarios that ended with Arthur dying, so Arthur remained quiet and waited until Lancelot had finished his mug of ale.

“You have shadows under your eyes,” Arthur pointed out to Lancelot, who pulled a face. “We have a long way ahead of us still, Lancelot. Bed, alright? This may be our final chance to rest indoors.”

He stood up and stepped over the bench, and followed Lancelot up the stairs to their small room. The tavern hadn’t been crowded and only a few people had rooms that evening.

Arthur leaned against the door as he shut it, his eyes closing wearily. He hadn’t realized just how tired he truly was.

“I have a place?”

_Shit._

Arthur opened his eyes to meet Lancelot’s. The other man was seated on the bed, his boots heeled off, the mail shirt he’d been wearing cast to the side. The grey in his beard and springy hair shone in the light from the moon and from the dancing flames that leapt in the grate.

“What does that mean, my golden tongued one?”

Lancelot’s tone was soft, but Arthur knew that could mean danger. He crossed to the bed, kicked off his own footwear and removed his hauberk before sitting down with Lancelot. He wanted nothing more than to flop on his stomach and sleep, but he had a bad feeling it would be a while before that could happen.

“I – I didn’t think you’d – want to have the villa, Lancelot,” Arthur said hesitantly. “Especially if we ended up finding your sister. If I – if something happened to me, I thought you’d want to stay with her. With your family, in your home.”

Lancelot stared at Arthur for a heartbeat. He ground out a sigh, lowered his head, and raised it again. He cupped Arthur’s face in his hand, and tried to force back the hurt that Arthur’s words had unwittingly caused.

“My home is with you. My home is where we’ve lived for ten years, together. Gods, but Arthur, you make me have to _think_ like no one I’ve ever known. And it drives me to insanity.” Lancelot drew his thumb along Arthur’s jaw, then dropped his hand, the fingers clenching. “Why wouldn’t I want to stay where we were together?” he finished, his voice tight. The anger _was_ surfacing.

“Lancelot, I – ” Arthur answered, then sighed as well. “This is the first time I’ve written any kind of will,” he admitted. “I know it’s surprising, considering it’s me,” he continued wryly. “But – I just didn’t want to face the fact that I could – I can – die at any time. Having you back in my life made me forget _much_ of what the real world is like.”

He touched Lancelot’s hip, feeling the lumpy scar through the edge of the leather pants the other man wore. “But … I just didn’t want to presume.”

He bit his lip and felt twenty-five years old again. And he _hated_ it. He didn’t want to slide into that thinking again – into that constant questioning of his and Lancelot’s honesty towards each other.

He shouldn’t have even wanted to. But this new development with Lilith, and the chance that Lancelot might have a _real_ family, made Arthur not want to assume anything. Despite the fact that for the past ten years Lancelot had stayed with him, had loved him, and had showed no desire to be anywhere else.

God, but he was being hurtful to Lancelot, and truth be told, to himself. He flushed in embarrassment and shame and rubbed at his face.

And then he rocked backward from the blow to his cheekbone. His hand flew up to cover the spot where Lancelot had punched him, and he stared at the other man, dumbfounded.

It had been a while since Lancelot had done _that_ to Arthur, but he hadn’t been able to stop himself. Sometimes Arthur just said something or did something or looked a certain way…gods save him, but Lancelot was ready to put the other man through a wall in anger.

“Don’t you fucking _dare_ give me that look,” Lancelot growled, his eyes shining with moisture. “We. Are. Passed this, Arthur! We are not in Britain and we have been through this already. I love you. I want to be with you. It kills me to think you’d still have some residual thought that I had doubts about us. Fuck you,” he spat, and sat down heavily on the bed, wiping his hand angrily across his eyes.

He met Arthur’s gaze. “I will not have this discussion again. I will not be a party to pain. Your doubts and indecision and guilt nearly destroyed me when we were young. I will _not_ feed your old fears.”

Arthur was staring at him, his face mottled with horror, his cheekbone red and beginning to bruise. He snorted out a rough breath, and sat up so he was facing Lancelot directly. He touched Lancelot’s hair, fingering a long silver strand that glinted in the moonlight.

“I am ashamed of myself,” he said softly, his own eyes burning with tears. “I am so sorry, my heart. Can you … Jesu,” Arthur sighed, falling back on the old swear word. He cracked a bitter smile.

“I would be honored and touched if you would take care of our home should … something happen to me.” He didn’t say anything about what he would do if something happened to Lancelot. He wasn’t going to think of that. Never. He didn’t care how hypocritical it was.

“Great bloody balls, Arthur,” Lancelot burst out. “Shut up. I will take care of the fucking villa. Stop worrying about it – nothing is going to happen to either one of us.” He rolled his wet eyes. “And I have a family. I have you. Finding Lily again is not going to change that. I swear it.”

He stood suddenly and jerked his leathers and tunic off, and then went around the room, snuffing out the torches and the few candles that were lit.

“This may be our last chance to sleep indoors,” he repeated Arthur’s earlier words. Lancelot shoved at the other man until Arthur moved and shucked his own trousers off. He pulled his vest and tunic off as well, and waited until Lancelot was settled. Arthur lay next to him, cocooning Lancelot with his larger frame.

“You fucking ass,” Lancelot whispered into Arthur’s neck, his knee nudging Arthur’s thighs apart. He burrowed in as close as he could get to Arthur, his arms wrapping almost painfully and possessively around him.

“I love you,” was Arthur’s answer, and Lancelot snorted. 

His lips found Arthur’s, though, and they forgave each other, with touch and passion, in silence.


	5. Chapter 5

The Danube was wide, its waters rushing against the hull of their craft. Lancelot’s grin was bright and large as he and Arthur stood next to their mounts, the animals snorting and pawing at the wood of the deck nervously.

Lancelot tried not to laugh at Arthur, who looked decidedly green and as if he were not enjoying the crossing. “You all right?” he finally asked, leaning on the rail next to Arthur.

Arthur kept his gaze on the rapidly approaching shore. “Fine,” he said, punctuating the word with a noise that sounded like he would lose the contents of his stomach. His eyes rolled, so he shut them in order to avoid seeing the swell of the waves and Lancelot’s smile.

“Relax, Arthur,” Lancelot told him. “The only way to avoid being sick is to just go with the motion.” 

“How would you know? Since when have you become a sailing expert? I thought you’d only been on a ship twice,” Arthur snipped back, his skin tinged yellow now. 

“That’s true, yes. But I also know that fighting the forces of nature will only get you into a world of shit,” Lancelot said back smartly. His hand slipped to rest on the small of Arthur’s back; leaning closer to him, Lancelot spoke in his ear. “Relax. I’ve got you.”

Arthur opened his eyes, and risked moving his head enough to look at Lancelot. The other man was smiling at him still, but it was gentle and without mockery, so Arthur smiled back.

And then promptly had to turn away and vomit up his breakfast.

*

They made good time that afternoon, despite Lancelot inquiring several times about the health of Arthur’s gut. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to rest?” he’d asked for the hundredth time. Arthur had turned eyes that seemed more green in contrast to the black circles under them on Lancelot.

“Fuck. Off,” he said through gritted teeth. Lancelot raised his eyebrow and mounted his horse.

“Don’t ever accuse me of being uncaring, Arthur,” Lancelot said primly. “Come on, then, tireless one. We still have a few days to ride.”

Arthur wanted to groan – his stomach was still in knots and his horse felt like it was bobbing up and down under him – but he wouldn’t give Lancelot the satisfaction of knowing he still felt ill.

That night Lancelot found them a decent campsite outside of the large town near where he thought Lily’s home was.

“She must be near this range of small foothills,” he said, pointing at the map Bal had drawn. Arthur nodded wearily and poked at the fire he’d built, making sure the hare they’d caught was cooking evenly.

“I think I can ask around tomorrow when we go through the town,” Lancelot kept on. “I’m sure someone must have heard of her, since she married into wealth.”

Lancelot smiled, a fleeting thing that lit his face and made it beautiful momentarily, despite the things Arthur knew had to be racing through Lancelot’s mind. Arthur couldn’t help but feel his mouth respond in kind as he sat with his knees pulled up, his arms about them. They met each other’s eyes, and only jumped when some of the cooking meat popped and sizzled in the flames. Arthur laughed, and Lancelot snorted.

“I’ll get it,” Lancelot said, and rose gracefully to get the food off the fire. Arthur watched him, his head caught in his palm. He was suddenly filled with the love he’d thought was dead when Lancelot had left him in Britain, and shut his eyes briefly at the power of it.

“Stop thinking,” came a voice at his shoulder, and he jerked guiltily. Lancelot handed him some meat in a piece of cloth, and joined him on the ground. He nudged Arthur’s shoulder.

“But they’re all good thoughts,” Arthur said quietly, his tone only slightly whiny, but when Lancelot laughed at him he smirked as well.

They ate in companionable silence. The fire made crackling noises and the trees around them provided shelter from the wind that had picked up earlier in the day.

“What will she think of me?” Lancelot said suddenly. He’d finished his food and was staring somewhat moodily into the fire. Arthur swallowed his last bite, and placed his palm on Lancelot’s thigh. He looked up at the stars, which were much more visible here than where they lived.

“What do you expect from her?” Arthur asked.

Lancelot had his knees raised like Arthur had earlier, and he laid his chin on them. “I have no idea,” he answered. “I don’t know what my parents told them about why I had left. I don’t know what Gawain’s sister told Lily, because I don’t know what Gawain and Galahad told _her_.” He sighed and tilted his head so his eyes glittered at Arthur through the gloom of twilight.

“I am afraid, Arthur,” he said softly, so softly Arthur had to strain to hear it over the noise of the night and the fire that still popped. “I am afraid I’ll be too late, and she’ll have no reason to want me.”

“Oh, Lancelot,” Arthur answered. He could feel confusion radiating off Lancelot, and it made his stomach clench like it had when they were on the boat. Except this time, he didn’t think he’d vomit.

“I wish I had more than platitudes to offer you,” Arthur went on. He bit his lip, and rubbed the large muscle of Lancelot’s thigh, which bunched under his touch. “I wish I had the answers you seek. But,” he rested his head in his other hand, “I _can_ offer you the surety that we shall find out together. If that helps.”

Lancelot moved quickly and lay against Arthur’s body. Arthur allowed his legs to drop open and Lancelot crawled between them, his back resting against Arthur’s chest, the larger man’s frame surrounding Lancelot with craved for warmth and comfort.

Lancelot had never felt more at home in any other place. It had become a commonplace feeling for him over the past ten years, and for a moment, he had a twinge of guilt for the happiness he had, while his sister had been alone and in pain for so long.

He shook it off. He was coming to her _now_. He would do anything in his power to right whatever wrong had been done to her, and he would smite anyone who dared try hurt the last member of his family. Besides, he had no reason to feel guilty. He’d done what he had to to survive, and she’d understand that.

He hoped.

Arthur’s lips feathered over his neck, and Lancelot’s hand rose, cupping Arthur’s cheek briefly. He twined their fingers together and held them in his lap.

“It helps,” he whispered into the dark.

*  
Arthur waited as Lancelot spoke to some of the locals the next day. The town was strange. It looked ramshackle and half put together, yet it had an oddly picturesque quality that Arthur couldn’t quite place. He sat at the edge of the town’s well, his arms crossed, his eyes watching the passersby. The horses were tethered a few yards away.

The sun was bright and hazy and he found himself thinking about what Lancelot would find if – when – they found his sister.

It must be odd for Lancelot to look for a member of his nomadic tribe in a _house_.  
Stonewalls were something Arthur was used to – and he thought perhaps Lancelot also might be by now, having spent so much time indoors, first in a barracks, and then in their villa – but he wasn’t sure. He made a mental note to ask. 

Come to think of it, he might just take a chance and risk asking Lancelot for more stories about his family. He knew little enough of Sarmatia and its people. What he knew he’d learned mainly from his father and from the few stories he’d heard over the years in Britain. But he had no idea what to expect of Lilith. He had no idea what to expect about this man who’d taken Lancelot’s niece, and that made him nervous. He was a warrior, born and bred, but he didn’t like going into _any_ situation blind.

Especially after what he’d let happen to Lancelot when he’d fought with Falco ten years before.

He squinted at the sun, and heard Lancelot’s voice get closer. He cursed himself for not learning more of the man’s language, but stood when Lancelot came up to him.

“Two days ride northeast,” he said, looking very solemn and still. His face was calm, but Arthur knew the other man was a churning mess on the inside. Not like Lancelot would ever give that away.

“Their home is at the foot of this section of mountains,” he went on quietly. “Passed the crossing of this river.” He pointed at the map, showing Arthur. “And two leagues due east of it.”

Arthur met Lancelot’s eyes, and touched his shoulder briefly. “What would you like to do?”

“Ride,” the answer came without pause.

Nodding, Arthur followed Lancelot to their horses, and after tucking some of the food he’d bought at one of the town’s market stalls into his saddle bags, he mounted his stallion, and ate the dust that came from Lancelot’s black horse.

He kept pace easily enough, and shut his mind down as the scenery flashed by in a dark blur.

*

The moon shone down on the two riders, the shadows making them seem two dimensional and stiff.

The trees surrounding them were full of night noises, and the horses’ legs were still wet from the stream they’d crossed.

Lancelot had kept a brutal pace, and they’d arrived at the foothills of the mountains the second night after leaving the town.

Earlier in the day, they’d crossed a very large plain, with long grasses and small dips in the land. They’d had to ford several streams that wound prettily through the land. The dark mountains rose in the distance, but they did not block the light or the breeze that seemed to have traveled from the very edge of the skyline. It smelled sweet, and the grass bent in deference to it.

Arthur had never seen Lancelot ride so fiercely or with so much determination.

Arthur had reined his mount in once as Lancelot was riding in front of him; the other man had slowed his frantic gallop so his horse could rest and not pull up lame right as they neared their goal. Arthur was not afraid of Lancelot getting too far ahead, so he dismounted, and stared about him.

_Oceans of grass, from horizon to horizon._

“No boundaries,” Arthur murmured as his horse blew air and tried to rest from their fast ride.

His eyes saw everything, and his mind took the images and placed them in a small, secret place, one that Arthur held most private, where the only other thoughts that resided there were of the man that had come from this place.

Arthur knew it couldn’t be the exact plain of Lancelot’s childhood, but it was close, and it was amazingly beautiful and Arthur thought he’d never felt closer to the other man in his life. It saddened him to an extreme he hadn’t felt in many years.

He breathed deeply, trying to capture the smell in his memory. He pulled a leaf from a small, hardy bush that grew near where he had stopped.

He tucked it inside a book in his bags, and with one last glance about him, he remounted. He spurred his horse and followed Lancelot, who had begun to gallop again in earnest.

He did not feel any shame at the tears that welled in his eyes.

As they rode slowly through the trees that gradually got thicker, Lancelot’s eyes narrowed, but he wasn’t worried. He knew where they were now. He’d memorized the directions the man in the town had given him, and he knew they were close.

So close that his heart was slamming against his ribcage in a way that made him want to _ride_ away from this place, and back home.

But…he was home, wasn’t he?

He shook his head at that. No. Home was Arthur. This was a place he’d long forgotten, and actually this part of it he’d never seen. He was just feeling sentimental longings and silly ideas of hope that he’d buried when he had been in Britain for over a year and had realized he’d not be seeing his family again.

“I see light ahead,” Arthur murmured at his elbow, and Lancelot nodded. 

“I as well,” he answered, and forced himself to keep the pace slow and steady. His black sensed his unease, though, and blew a snort that made Lancelot laugh.

“It’s all right, Lancelot,” came Arthur’s voice through the gloom, and despite the initial urge to clock the officious fool, Lancelot merely exhaled heavily and stuck out his hand.

Arthur took it, pressed his lips to the speeding _thump thump_ of Lancelot’s pulse, and then dropped the hand. Lancelot took up his reins, and they were riding side by side as Lily and Farrin’s home came into view.

*

There was someone at the gate, but before Lancelot could announce himself and Arthur, the wooden thing swung open and a man waved them through.

Arthur caught Lancelot’s eyes; they were both looking around in amazement. The building was large and obviously well cared for, but there were no animal sounds, no soft talking of servants, no noises that normally came from a house this size.

Lancelot’s mouth compressed into a thin white line, and he leaped off his horse, flinging the reins to the man that had let them in.

Arthur dismounted more slowly, and took the bags from their horses. The gate keeper smiled at him, said a few words that Arthur didn’t understand, and led the animals away.

Lancelot squared his shoulders, and walked to the main door, proud that his knees weren’t trembling. Sucking in a deep breath, he knocked, and called Lily’s name.

The door swung open slowly, and a woman came out that was a few years younger than Lancelot. Arthur had to clamp his lips shut when he got a good look at her.

Even in the dim moonlight, the woman was obviously kin to Lancelot. She had lighter hair, but the eyes – good God. Arthur’s gaze roved over her. She was slender like Lancelot was, and fine boned, but the set of her shoulders and the expression on her face showed she brooked no nonsense.

Smiling without meaning to, Arthur thought that the look the woman wore was very familiar.

She spoke rapidly, her tone annoyed and questioning, until she raised her head and stared Lancelot in the face.

Her breathing stuttered and she had to grab the post of the door for support.

She said something else, and her hand, shaking and white, rose to touch Lancelot on an angular cheek that looked so like her own.

Lancelot allowed the caress, and when she dropped her hand, he reached inside his tunic, and pulled out something that made the woman start, a small cry coming from her lips.

Arthur got closer; he wanted to remember this tableau in his ancient years.

Lancelot’s eyes glittered, but his face was deadly serious. His body was as taut as a bow string, and he held out the lion pendant his sister had given him forever ago. The woman in front of him – Lily – took it, and ran her thumb over it as Arthur had seen Lancelot do uncountable times.

“Lancelot,” was all Arthur understood, and the long-lost siblings stared at each other a moment before Lancelot was squeezing her as tightly as he could, Lily’s smaller body lifting off the ground with the force of his effort.

Neither of them spoke; Arthur could not hold back a huge smile as he watched Lancelot and his sister embrace for the first time in over twenty years.

Arthur noticed that Lancelot’s eyes were closed, although the skin below them remained dry and bleached looking in the moonlight. Lancelot was murmuring something to Lily; of course, Arthur couldn’t understand the _words_ , but he didn’t need to.

“Lancelot,” she said again, and a stream of musical-sounding Sarmatian poured out of her mouth. She pulled back from Lancelot’s clutching arms, and caught his face in her hands. She was smiling and crying and Arthur thought he’d never seen anything so beautiful in his life.

He must have coughed or made a noise, because Lancelot interrupted Lily’s speech by putting a finger over her lips. He said something and they both laughed. 

Turning, Lancelot brought his sister to Arthur, his arm still attached to her shoulders.

“Arthur,” he said, having to clear his throat. His eyes were suspiciously bright. “Arthur, this is Lily. Lilith. My sister.”

Arthur felt his eyes burn and cursed his overly sentimental soul. “My lady, this is an honor I thought I’d never have.” He took her hand and brushed his lips over the knuckles.

Lily was staring at him with one eyebrow cocked. She rapid-fired a few more words at Lancelot, and, while still holding her hand, Lancelot touched Arthur’s shoulder. He said a few things, the only thing Arthur understanding his own name.

Then Lancelot dropped his hand from Arthur’s shoulder to the place on Arthur’s chest where his heart beat, and spread his palm out over the spot. He spoke again, and then brought the same hand to his own heart.

Lily looked at her brother, and then at Arthur. Realization dawned in her eyes, and she quirked a brow at Lancelot, then spoke to him again in a tone as dry as the desert. She made a pretty curtsy to Arthur and, after saying a few more words to Lancelot, finally dropped his hand and gestured for them to come into the house.

Lancelot laughed, and followed her with his eyes as she walked away.

Arthur stood next to him and spoke. “I hesitate to ask what she said,” he commented wryly.

“She said, ‘I should have known you’d conquer the Romans rather than the other way ‘round.’” Lancelot turned his head and met Arthur’s gaze. He smiled, and Arthur thought that it wasn’t Lily’s face that had been the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

On impulse, and because of the overwhelming _things_ he felt, Arthur leaned forward and pressed suddenly shaking lips to Lancelot’s. His hands slid up Lancelot’s arms, and he cupped the other man’s face between his palms.

Lancelot kept his eyes closed for a moment after their kiss had ended, and his smile was slow and gentle. He waited a moment, and then shook his head.

“No,” he sighed quietly, “there is nothing I can say.”

He hugged Arthur tightly for a brief moment, then turned and followed Lily into the house. Arthur came after, his mind whirling and his heart speeding – although from excitement, or apprehension, he had no idea.


	6. Chapter 6

Arthur had slept fitfully. Dawn had come, and considering how late they’d arrived at Lily’s house, he really didn’t think of what he’d done as sleep – it had been more like a nap.

His yawn cracking his jaw, he stepped out of the room he and Lancelot had been given, and looked up and down the hallway. Unsurprisingly Lancelot hadn’t shown his face during the night, and Arthur was anxious to see him.

Making his way down the corridor, he found himself in the kitchen, and after gathering up a mug of some sort of spiced drink and a rind of bread, he wandered outside, and got a look at the house in the light of the newly risen sun.

It was plain, but lovely. The plants that grew here were different than anything Arthur had ever seen; they were dark in color and matched the surrounding land well. He bent over and stuck his face into one of the blossoms, and then jerked back, wrinkling his nose at the smell.

“Those are for looks only.”

Arthur turned rapidly at the sound of Lancelot’s voice, and smiled crookedly at him. He set his food and drink on a small bench and went to stand in front of Lancelot.

“Have you slept?” he asked, noting that the darkness under Lancelot’s eyes was much more pronounced than normal. Arthur frowned as Lancelot turned away from him, his movements slightly slow and dazed.

“Lancelot,” Arthur said, following the other man. He moved around in front of Lancelot again and put a hand on his chest to stop him from walking. “Good morning?”

“Hm? Oh, yes,” Lancelot’s eyes met Arthur’s. “Sorry. I’m a bit.… Good morning.” He leaned in and perfunctorily kissed Arthur, and then wandered over to the bench where Arthur had put his breakfast. Lancelot took a sip of the drink as Arthur joined him.

“What’s wrong?” Arthur put his hand on Lancelot’s thigh, and waited.

Lancelot’s mouth compressed into a white line, and he shrugged. “It seems we are too late.” He spoke in a normal, relaxed tone. Arthur could feel the chill in Lancelot’s skin through the thin material of the linen trousers he wore, though, and saw the paleness of his face.

A pit started to grow in Arthur’s stomach. “Too late for what?”

Lancelot stood in a burst of sudden energy, making Arthur start and grab for the mug of drink that almost fell in his wake.

“I am too late, Arthur. Too late, too late to help, too late to explain, too late to save her,” Lancelot said, his voice pinched and broken sounding. Lancelot had always been intensely private about his family – the fact that Lancelot had actually let Arthur come with him was still a bit shocking to Arthur – but when he wanted to talk about something, God forbid any man get in his way.

The pain in Arthur’s stomach blossomed into a full grown ache when Lancelot turned to face him, and Arthur saw the redness and _hopelessness_ in Lancelot’s eyes.

“Farrin’s dead,” he said plainly, the words falling from his lips as if they were the easiest things in the world to say. “That man – that monster that took her? Killed her a few weeks ago. Lily found her body on her doorstep one morning. No word, no more demands, no nothing.”

“Oh, Jesu,” Arthur spoke the familiar curse, and stood, going to Lancelot, his food and drink forgotten. He took the other man’s arms in his hands, and forced Lancelot to meet his eyes. “And Lily?”

Lancelot stared at him for a moment, and then laughed. Arthur shivered at the sound. “She is as well as can be expected. She argued with me for hours last night, telling me nothing more can be done; this Ebrahim has refused all requests to see her, or to answer her questions. Why, Arthur?” he suddenly said, his voice cracking, his eyes filling with tears.

Arthur wanted to break something, or rail at God, or more to the point, kill this man that had put the expression on Lancelot’s face he was seeing now.

And Lily! God. A widow with only her child left in the whole world – and to have that child taken away, senselessly, violently? A growl of confusion and rage slipped passed Arthur’s lips, and he pulled Lancelot into an embrace, forcing the other man to hold still.

Which worked for about two seconds, as Lancelot, being much more devious than Arthur usually gave him credit for, broke the hold by stomping on Arthur’s foot, and tore himself away from Arthur’s grasp.

“Shit!” Arthur swore and hopped for moment while trying to rub his foot and keep an eye on Lancelot’s whereabouts at the same time. “Lancelot, please. You need to talk about this. Let me help you – ”

“What the bloody fuck do you know, _Roman_?” Lancelot roared, his face a mass of tears and snot, his eyes almost black from pain. “I should have been here! I should have been with _her_ , not relaxing and wasting my time on a villa that was never mine to begin with! I was a slave to Rome – that will never change. I stayed with you when I should have been here, with her. I should have been here,” he sobbed, and buried his face in his hands, swaying as he stood, his body shaking with the strength of the emotion Arthur knew he’d hidden all night.

Arthur’s eyes slid closed. He tried to remember that Lancelot was feeling things he’d likely not experienced since he was a young boy taken from his family. But just the same….

_I stayed with you when I should have been here._

_I was a slave to Rome._

_Wasting my time._

Arthur squeezed his hands into fists, and bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood, then opened his eyes.

Lancelot was on his knees, sobbing still, only now it was softer – and Arthur felt tears rush to his eyes at the futility in the sound.

Despite the hurt in the accusations Lancelot had thrown at him, Arthur’s first feelings were for the man he’d spent the last twenty years loving. He sighed exhaustedly and took the few steps to where Lancelot was.

“My heart,” he murmured, and knelt next to him, wrapping his arms around Lancelot again. This time the other man didn’t fight him; instead, he buried his face in the crook of Arthur’s neck and cried harder. Arthur couldn’t catch much of what Lancelot said – it was mostly Sarmatian dialect and mumbled – but he did hear Lily’s name and Farrin’s, and at last his own.

_Should have been here._

Arthur’s gut twisted and he had to swallow strongly against the urge to vomit. _You are not important. This is for Lancelot, and his family. They are the ones that matter, now._

He nodded to himself and held Lancelot, who was clutching at him and breathing heavily. Arthur murmured a few words – a bit of an old Latin prayer – and pressed his mouth to Lancelot’s temple.

At last Arthur got Lancelot to his feet, and over to the bench where, comically, the mug holding Arthur’s drink still rested, teetering at the edge. He picked it up and forced Lancelot to take a sip.

He kept one arm around the other man and wiped at his face gently with his free hand. It was oddly disconcerting to see such intense emotion on Lancelot’s face _now_ , with its laugh lines and creases that Arthur found more attractive each time he looked. Not that Lancelot and intense emotion were strangers – but sadness, especially when it involved himself, wasn’t something Lancelot shared with many. Even with Arthur.

“What do you wish to do?”

Arthur found himself repeating the question of a few days ago, when they’d discovered where Lily’s house was. Lancelot sighed and scrubbed at his hair, making it stand up in silver and black clumps.

“I wish to kill Ebrahim,” he said quietly. 

“Lancelot, no – ”

Lancelot’s eyes narrowed, and Arthur stopped talking. He swallowed and waited for the other man to finish.

“I will kill this man, and then I shall take my sister away from this place that pains her so.”

Arthur shook his head slowly. “Revenge is never the answer, Lancelot. When it is done, what’s left? You still feel the anger, the hurt, the betrayal, the evil that the person perpetrated upon you. What if this man has many guards? How do you plan to get to him? What good will it do Farrin’s memory?”

Lancelot’s mouth compressed into a thin line. “I should have known you wouldn’t understand. I spent my life fighting and bleeding and watching my brothers die for your Empire, Arthur. I should have been here, with my family. But instead, I was forced to do things I did not wish, for a land that hates me still. I will do this. I will, for once, do something _I_ want to do.”

He stood and crossed his arms. “You do what you want to do, Arthur. I will kill this man, and I will take my sister to wherever she wants to go. You are free to go home, if that is what you wish.”

He turned and strode into the house before Arthur could do more than open his mouth in shock.

The sky was suddenly dark, and Arthur squinted upward, unable to do anything or think of any normal actions he should take. The sound of thunder rolled over the land, and still he sat there, frozen, icy cold, his stomach roiled into knots he felt he’d never get rid of.  
The rain fell, and still he sat there.

He didn’t come inside until Lily herself ran out to get him, a blanket over her head. She chided him softly and dragged him into the house with a firm hand.

*

Arthur stared at the floor of the kitchen as Lily bustled around him, still muttering about how idiotic he was and didn’t he realize he’d catch his death of cold if he’d stayed out in the rain?

Something nagged at Arthur, and he looked up when he figured out what it was. She was speaking to him in Latin.

Broken, rusty Latin, but he could mostly understand her. He smiled and took the cup of hot drink she offered.

“Where did you learn to speak Latin?” he asked, and had to clear his throat when she looked at him strangely. He swallowed again over the large lump wedged there, and she sighed and sat next to him in the other chair in the room. Arthur frowned when he remembered she’d acted like she’d not understood him the previous night – and then he realized he’d spoken in Briton out of habit.

“My father,” she said, her voice low and musical like Lancelot’s. Arthur’s eyes burned and he took a sip of the drink in order to hide behind the steam. Lily shook her head and stood up, grabbing a fur off the back of the hearth, and placed it over his lap. He thanked her through teeth that were suddenly chattering.

“It is not good Latin,” she went on, laughing slightly. “But I think you don’t understand enough of my language for us to speak.” She had filled up a cup for herself, and took a sip as Arthur thought. He shivered and tucked the fur over his legs more tightly.

“I wish I had studied it more closely,” he said. “My father was almost fluent, but he died when I was young. And my mother was from Britain, so I didn’t have much chance to learn Sarmatian until I’d been given my own command.” His brows drew together at the memory, and he looked at her. She was frowning at him.

“I’m sorry – perhaps I’m speaking too quickly – ”

“My father taught us all the language of Rome, so we could find our brother, given the chance,” she went on. “My mother was certain that if we just traveled far enough – spoke with enough soldiers – we’d find him. Of course, that was a dream,” Lily sighed, and rested her chin in her hand. She finished her drink and motioned for Arthur to keep on with his. He obeyed meekly, and she laughed at him.

“You have known him, my brother, for a long while?”

Arthur stared into his mug. “Yes. I wasn’t his first commander, but I was the one that saw him through to his freedom from duty.”

“He called it slavery,” she said with no preamble. 

Anger flashed briefly in Arthur’s eyes, but he dampened down his emotion. He would not take his temper out on Lancelot’s sister when it wasn’t her he was angry with.

“His view of the Empire and mine will always be different,” Arthur sighed. “But, the forced conscription of _boys_ was never a good idea. But sometimes that’s how it goes in war to find peace.” He rubbed his face and decided to not discuss politics with someone he barely knew, let alone the sister that Lancelot hadn’t seen since being taken away himself.

“I saw you kiss him,” Lily said suddenly. Arthur’s head jerked up, and he flushed. 

“We are…well, we are … close,” he finished, realizing how ridiculous that sounded. Lily made a tch’ing noise and he met her eyes again, so like those of her brother.

“You are not ‘close’. You are lovers.”

Arthur’s voice rumbled with indignation, but he found as he looked at this woman, he couldn’t chastise her or get embarrassed. It was the truth, after all.

He made a small sound, and rolled his lips inward, thinking briefly. “Yes,” he said softly after a moment. “I love him.”

Lily smiled gently at him and patted his arm. “I am pleased he has found someone to give him the love he is worth. He was so very generous with his affections as a child,” she mused. “But very hard to accept love in return. You seem – you seem to fit well. I am glad of it.”

“He is my life,” Arthur said simply. Lily nodded and Arthur had to drop his gaze after a moment, embarrassed, after all.

“You must convince him, then,” she said quietly. “Not to do this terrible thing he is planning. He will only get himself killed. And then, I will have no one.”

Arthur toyed with his empty mug. “I don’t know if I can, Lily.”

“You will convince him.” Lily’s voice was resolute. She stood, and took the mug from Arthur. “He loves you as well, Arthur. He loves you like breathing air. I can see this – even with him not speaking those words directly. You will convince him.”

Arthur bit his lip, but nodded. How could do anything but agree with Lancelot’s sister?

He stood, and on impulse, took her hands in his and kissed her forehead. “With all of my heart, I shall try, lady.”

Lily trembled once under his kiss, but when he pulled back, she was stiff and strong again. “I will be in your debt.”

She turned away from him and began to pull knives and supplies for cooking from the hanging racks over her head. Stopping, she stared out the window.

“Please, Arthur.”

Arthur bowed his head respectfully, and turned to go and find Lancelot, to try and succeed where he knew he would probably fail.

*

Lancelot was, predictably, in the stables. They were smaller than the ones they had at home, and darker, and more messily kept.

This time, however, Arthur was rather confused about how he felt.

More than confused. He was hurt, and angry, distressed, and sick to his stomach. The drink Lily had given him had helped, but as he stood in the doorway and watched his lover pack up his horse again, he couldn’t help but rub at his belly and try and think of something smart to say.

“Don’t even try, Arthur.”

Lancelot bent over, and cinched the girth of his saddle, checking to make sure his mount wasn’t doing something strange, like holding its breath so Lancelot would slip and fall when he got up on the horse’s back. Lancelot’s horse was a bit like its owner, actually.

Arthur counted to five, and then approached Lancelot warily. The other man was like a bee – buzzing angrily and jumping from one thing to another quickly before he’d finished a task. Arthur reached a hand out to touch Lancelot, but then thought better of it. He didn’t want to get stung.

“If you’re not willing to listen to me, then listen to your sister,” Arthur reasoned. “She doesn’t want you to do this, Lancelot. She’s afraid you’ll get yourself killed, and she’ll be alone – ”

Arthur rocked back from the punch Lancelot threw, and he cursed, rubbing his sore jaw as Lancelot glared at him, his hands on his narrow hips. “Don’t you fucking _dare_ use her to get to me, Arthur. She’ll be glad I did this when it’s done, and you can go sit and rot for all I care right now – ”

Arthur surprised himself and lashed out, connecting with Lancelot’s cheekbone. The other man stumbled backward and landed on his ass on the pile of tack he’d yet to put on his horse.

“You bastard!” Lancelot shouted, and launched himself at Arthur, taking the larger man down in a tackle around his waist. Arthur grunted in shock and went down, cracking his head on the side of the stall. He saw stars, unable to move as Lancelot sat astride his legs and started to swing his fist at Arthur again.

Lancelot got in one more good sock to Arthur’s jaw, but then hesitated, his hand in the air, breathing heavily, as Arthur just lay there, waiting for whatever Lancelot would do.

“Do something, you cock sucker!” Lancelot hissed, his eyes hurting and his brain not functioning correctly. He couldn’t hit Arthur if Arthur wouldn’t defend himself. And he really wanted to hit Arthur. Fucking bastard wasn’t complying, though.

“You want to hit me? Here I am. Go ahead, Lancelot.” Arthur’s voice was tired and defeated. “You’ve already shown me you’re not willing to listen. So just hit me. Come on! I know it’s what you want.”

His green eyes glittered in the gloom of the stables, and Lancelot swung again. He stopped just as his fist reached Arthur’s cheek.

He snorted breath through his nose, and rolled off Arthur in a sudden motion that made him dizzy momentarily. Fucker! Why did Arthur always have to be so … logical? And how had Lancelot put up with it for so long?

How had he come to love that trait, and wish sometimes he could copy it himself?

Lancelot moved to his horse, and laid his head on its neck, trying to calm himself as he breathed in the familiar scent of animal. He loved his mount. He loved all horses. They weren’t as complicated as humans, and he could get his horse to do almost anything he wanted by just giving it some sugar or a rub down.

Lancelot clutched at the mane of his horse and gritted his teeth. The fight had made his back ache, and he found he had to swallow hard over the large lump that reappeared in his throat.

He knew what he was doing was right. Despite what Lily said, especially despite what Arthur said. He had been absent from Lily’s life for so long, and he felt so guilty for it, that this was the only way he knew how to make it up. Besides, he’d want someone to defend his family if he were dead.

_If you’d been here, perhaps Farrin would still be alive._

He bit off a small sob, and tensed when Arthur touched his back gently.

He turned and Arthur stepped back, his hands raised in surrender.

“We are both too old for this,” Arthur said wryly. “Please, I know I said you could, but I don’t think my jaw could take another hit.”

Lancelot rolled his eyes, but shoved his hands in the pockets of his leathers. “Fine. For now.”

Arthur snorted, and retreated to an overturned barrel, and gestured to Lancelot. “You’re welcome to continue,” he said. Lancelot made a face.

“You’re so magnanimous, Arthur,” he spat, and then sighed as he picked up his bridle and slid it over his mount’s nose, fitting the thing in quickly and easily. He patted the horse’s neck, and began to attach his bags to the hooks on the saddle where they normally rested.

Arthur cleared his throat, and risked speaking again. “I understand your motivations,” he said quickly. “But Lancelot, please. Think on this, hard and seriously, before you go off willy-nilly and get yourself hurt. Or worse. Lily has only you, now,” he added earnestly, before Lancelot could interrupt him. “How will she feel if you die at the hands of the man who murdered her only child?”

“How can I let him live? He took my sister's blood from her, for no reason. For no reason, Arthur!” Lancelot’s voice rose. He finished readying his horse, and after picking up his coat, he led the animal from the stall out into the dark, rainy morning. Arthur followed him and watched as Lancelot wound the reins around part of Lily’s fence so the horse wouldn’t bolt.

Lancelot shrugged his leather coat on, and then leaned against the fence, crossing his arms. “She has only me, Arthur, to defend her honor, and to find out just what motivated this man to do this. I will avenge my niece. I will protect our family honor, and for once in my fucking life, I will do something for _me_. Something I feel is right, and worthy of my ‘duty.’” He made a face as he spoke the final word.

He slid a hand inside his coat, and touched his tunic, the spot over his heart where the scar from Badon Hill still showed, and still haunted Arthur each time he saw it.

Lancelot closed his eyes, and Arthur froze, waiting to see what the other man would do. At last Lancelot lifted his dusky-lashed lids, and approached Arthur. He sighed harshly, and then rested his hands on either side of Arthur’s face.

He spoke, but it was Sarmatian, and Arthur couldn’t understand him. Tears welled in Arthur’s eyes suddenly; he had a feeling he knew what Lancelot was doing, and he wound his arms around Lancelot’s waist, keeping the man as close to him as possible.

“Please don’t do this,” Arthur whispered.

“It’s done,” Lancelot answered. He ran his fingers over Arthur’s face, smiling lightly. “Don’t follow me.”

He stared at Arthur for a long, charged moment, his dark eyes full of something Arthur couldn’t name, and then just as Arthur was ready to lean forward and kiss him, he broke out of Arthur’s hold and strode to his horse. Mounting up, he adjusted the swords that were stowed on his saddle, and was gone in a blaze of black leather and dust.

 

“Lancelot!” Arthur called after him, but Lancelot didn’t turn and he didn’t slow down.

Arthur watched the retreating form until the trees hid it. He moved stiffly to the small bench he’d sat on earlier that morning, and stared at his hands until he felt Lily join him.

“I’m sorry,” he said after a time.

“I know, Arthur,” she answered. “But I also know you’ll do what’s right for him.”

Lily handed him something, and Arthur looked at the lion pendant that now rested in his hand as she stood and moved away into the house.

He ran his thumb over it as he’d seen Lancelot do countless times, and then stood, calling for the steward, his bags, and his horse.

When he was kitted out, he sat astride his mount and touched the hilt of Excalibur reverently, and the part of the lion pendant that showed at the top of his tunic.

He gigged his horse, and rode out after Lancelot, the directions given to him by Lily memorized.


	7. Chapter 7

_I should have been here, when I was with you._

_Wasting my time – a slave to Rome._

_A slave to my love for you._

Lancelot shouted, a wordless cry to his mount, and the animal ran faster.

The few leagues to Ebrahim’s home flashed by in a blur; he was glad it was too short a trip for him to begin thinking too much. Thoughts flitted in and out of his brain, but he ignored them, content to have one thing only in the forefront of his mind.

_Retribution._

The forest changed from thick trees to sparsely growing ones; the foothills of the mountains came into view, and Lancelot could feel the chill from the wind that had picked up.

The air was sharp – the rainstorm must have swept through the mountains before crossing over where Lily lived, and he could still smell the lingering aftereffects from the lightning.

It made him antsy and clearheaded at the same time.

Pulling up next to a large, flat rock, Lancelot dismounted, and after tying off his horse so the animal could rest and graze for a bit, he sat cross legged on the rock and, holding his blades over his knees, he shut his eyes.

He felt guilt at the thought of the way he’d left Arthur. But…the other man had to understand why he was doing this. Lancelot had had _nothing_ when he’d left Britain. He had been an ex-conscript in a world that had moved on without him. He hadn’t expected to find his family, had reconciled himself to that, but now, so many years down the road, having been given this gift of Lily – and Farrin –

He choked at the thought of his poor, innocent niece, a child he’d never know or have the chance to see grow. He could imagine her from the description Lily had given him –

Anger rose up in him like the water rising under the boat they’d used to cross the Danube. He opened his eyes, his thoughts of his betrayal of Arthur shoved to the back of his mind. He remounted, his swords in the sheaths on his back.

He was close. And he wanted to be ready. This Ebrahim would be dead before he could even draw breath to ask for forgiveness from Lancelot’s family.

*

Arthur’s horse pounded tirelessly after Lancelot; he could tell the other man had passed by here due to broken branches and slight impressions in the grassy ground. At least he _hoped_ it was Lancelot. Regardless, Arthur knew he’d been going in the right direction when the sounds of people reached his ears, and the walls of a large house came into sight.

He slowed his horse; the house was built into the side of a mountain. It was magnificently large and seemed almost impenetrable – 

Except for the dead bodyguards that littered the ground at the open gate.

He reined in and dismounted. Flinging the straps of the bridle around a tree branch, he drew Excalibur and made his way cautiously toward the gate and kept his eyes on his surroundings. He wouldn’t want to be surprised before he could find Lancelot, and stop this idiocy before the man did something both he and Arthur would regret.

His head whipped around at the sound of screaming people; servants came running from the house, waving their arms and yelling at him, words that he assumed meant _get out_ by the looks on their faces.

He pushed them out of the way, and entered the house.

More dead bodyguards. One of them had no head, and Arthur’s eyes closed briefly at the confirmation that Lancelot was here – who else would leave behind beheaded guards?

_Arthur, you fight for a world that will never exist. Never! There will always be a battlefield._

A blink, and Arthur opened his eyes. A staircase loomed in front of him – he looked around and found that this part of the house was small, and it seemed that most of the rooms and sleeping quarters must be above.

A loud crash echoed through the house, and another young man careened down the stairs and smashed into Arthur at their foot. Arthur caught at his collar before the man could get away, and shook him.

“Where is your master?” he asked, his voice calm. He was trying for a soothing tone, in hope that the youth would stop flailing his arms and tell Arthur where to find Lancelot.

The man gaped at him, and Arthur wanted to smack himself when he realized the man couldn’t understand him. “Ebrahim,” he added, and the servant’s eyes went wide. He jerked a hand toward the stairs, and then tore himself from Arthur’s tight grasp.

Very well. Arthur had the information he needed, and he proceeded up the stairs, the sounds of fighting becoming more loud and clear as he reached the top.

Arthur found himself in a large, circular room. He looked around quickly, and got an impression of tasteful decoration and huge windows with spectacular mountain views before he caught sight of two figures hurtling past one of the many doorways that opened into the room. He leaped toward the movement without thinking, Excalibur held high in his hand.

The doorway opened into another round room, this one smaller and seemingly crammed full of things. Arthur’s head swung wildly about, searching for the men he’d seen careening by, but before he was able to do much more than take a single breath, a body crashed into his, knocking Excalibur from his grip. The figure landed painfully on Arthur’s middle as they both slammed into the floor.

“What the bloody fuck, Arthur!” Lancelot was furious; he was spitting as he spoke, his bony hips pressing into Arthur’s as he shoved against him, standing, his two blades still held in his hands. “I told you not to come!”

Lancelot was wild eyed and crazed; he was panting heavily and bleeding from a dozen cuts, most on his arms and hands, a few others dotting his face and what Arthur could see of his chest. He was sweating profusely, his hair matted to his head and his clothing soaked through. Arthur knew, though, without even looking, that Lancelot’s swords would be held in rock steady hands. Despite Lancelot’s obvious exhaustion, he would never lose _that_ ability. Not until the last moment – and that was what Arthur had come to prevent.

Lancelot’s dark eyes stared at Arthur’s chest, and for a moment Arthur didn’t know what Lancelot was focusing on, so he raised his hand and felt his collar. He encountered the hard coolness of the lion pendant.

“She wants you safe,” Arthur said. “I don’t care what I have to do to convince you of that, Lancelot. You will come back with me.”

Lancelot opened his mouth to retort, but the other person Arthur had seen spoke, interrupting them.

“What is this? Another man to make it possible for you to scratch me?”

The voice that thundered through the room came from the most unlikely of sources. Arthur had expected Ebrahim to be around Arthur’s age, large and strongly muscled.

This man looked more like Galahad than the giant Arthur had conjured in his mind. And he was _young_.

He was slender and short and had closely cropped, blond hair. His blue eyes shone out from under thick brows, and his teeth were small and sharp as he grinned. He flipped a curved blade such as the one Tristan had carried from hand to hand.

And he spoke Latin. Arthur did a double take at that.

“You brought a Roman with you from the land of Hadrian?” Ebrahim asked Lancelot, his tone full of scorn. “I thought you said you wanted this to be between us.”

“It will be,” Lancelot growled back in Latin. “Arthur – get the hell out of here. I told you not to come.” He advanced on Ebrahim, the set of blades in his hands shining in the sunlight that filtered in through the windows.

Arthur grunted as he rose; his back twinged and he felt a strange popping in his hip. “And I told you, I’m not leaving you to do this alone. We are in all things – together.”

Lancelot turned briefly to meet Arthur’s eyes, and Arthur cried out in warning as the young blond rushed toward them.

A clash of steel and the two men were locked in combat. Arthur stepped up, his own blade found and cradled in his hand, and looked for an opportunity to separate Lancelot from Ebrahim.

“You will be nothing but dust, conscript,” the man taunted Lancelot, and Arthur wanted to swear at the look that produced on Lancelot’s face. 

“Your blood will coat my blades, coward,” Lancelot bit back, and Ebrahim’s face darkened. Arthur moved in behind Lancelot, his stance wary and his balance on the balls of his feet. Arthur saw Ebrahim begin to feint to his left, and moved to strike –

But then Lancelot stepped on Arthur’s foot, and shoved him out of the way with an elbow. Arthur stumbled backward, and Lancelot swung his swords in fast circles as he engaged his enemy. Arthur shook his head and watched as he tried to find an opening again, his eyes carefully on Lancelot, watching as the other man still showed his amazing skill and quickness when it came to the art of the blade. Lancelot’s silver shot hair picked up light from the windows, and Arthur was momentarily distracted as he saw men and smoke surrounding him, his sword too late to stop the arrow that penetrated even heavy armor….

A cry broke his daze and he moved without thinking, stopping only when he saw that it was the young man who was injured this time. Lancelot held his swords out still, one at a forty-five degree angle to his chest, the other at his hip. He was grinning fiercely. Arthur smiled grimly at the sight of Ebrahim’s arm dripping blood.

“You ancient old goat,” Ebrahim said, fingering his shirt. He growled at Lancelot, who had flashed his own feral grin at the young man. Lancelot’s grip on his swords was strong and steady as Ebrahim snarled at him. “I’ll use your skin for my saddle! And send your head to your sister, so she can set it next to her child’s.”

Lancelot spat curses, the words cold and sibilant, and attacked. The blond man was caught by surprise at the speed and savagery of the blows, and backed away desperately as the old soldier descended on him, the two swords a blur as Lancelot sent wave after wave of steel bites into the other man’s skin. Blood was flowing freely between the two of them, and Arthur tried to find an opening anywhere, so he could get the combatants separated.

Arthur wavered – he knew how good Lancelot was. He knew _first hand_ how good. But Lancelot, despite his desire and his anger, was also human, and older than he had been at Badon. Arthur could see it in his step, and in the hesitation as Lancelot pushed Ebrahim into a statue on a pedestal, the thing crashing to the floor and startling them both. Arthur could see it in the slump of Lancelot’s shoulders, and now that Ebrahim had gotten over his surprise at Lancelot’s speed, he was pushing Lancelot back with an attack of his own. Lancelot was forced to watch his footing and to defend the blows that were raining down on him faster and faster.

Arthur’s eyes darted back and forth between the two men; looking for a chance, any chance, to slide Excalibur into the fray and hopefully end this.

“You fuck!”

Ebrahim was shouting curses at Lancelot, who had the blond backed into a corner. Lancelot was trying to land the killing blow, his swords at neck level, while Ebrahim was holding them off – barely – with his own blade. Arthur blinked – how had he missed – and he launched himself at Lancelot and Ebrahim. Now that the two men were stilled, perhaps he could find a space for his own blade.

The two combatants had almost frozen in place. Their joined swords vibrated, as Lancelot tried to end the other man’s life and Ebrahim tried to stop him, and made a whining sound that had all of them wincing and gritting their teeth. Neither combatant would budge.

Lancelot shoved harder, and his nose was a mere inch from Ebrahim’s. The edge of one of his swords forced Ebrahim’s so close to the other man’s neck, it nicked him. “Just give up. You will die here, your blood staining your floor, your body left to rot like those of your guards.”

Arthur saw Lancelot, snarl burned into his face, his pupils shrunk to pinpoints, the normal rationality in the man completely buried in the warrior.

It had been some _age_ since Arthur had witnessed that face. He hated it.

He slipped Excalibur between the three blades, and with a grunt and the hardest shove and twist he could manage, the locked swords came apart. The tip of Ebrahim’s hit the floor with a clink; the younger man fingered his neck in amazement and not a little amusement, staring at Arthur and Lancelot.

“Arthur!” Lancelot bellowed, his tone full of rage and denial. He moved toward Arthur, his swords raised, his expression contorted and pain filled. 

Arthur stood his ground. “Stop this! For your family’s sake, Lancelot! And you!” he whirled on the younger man, “I don’t know what sickness has caused you to do something so awful to an innocent child,” his voice shook with anger. “But nothing can be solved by – ”

_for our friendship’s sake I beg you_

He jerked and felt his grip on Excalibur waver. His vision went spotty, and he stumbled sideways, suddenly dizzy. He heard the distinct clang of his blade hitting the floor, and wanted to tell Lancelot _get my sword, my sword, get it!_ but his lips wouldn’t move.

He hit the ground hard, on his knees first. He wavered and then fell to his side, his hip cracking when it met the rug-covered floor of the room. He felt rather than saw Lancelot moving over him, felt rather than saw Lancelot run his enemy through with his double blades, one right after another, felt rather than saw Lancelot’s anxious, sweaty face in front of his.

“Arthur – Arthur! You damn whoreson, what have you done? Arthur – wake up, fool, you cannot sleep! Shit! Come on, heart, wake up!” The last few words weren’t angry anymore. They were beseeching, and tight, and sorrowful, and Arthur tried to say _It’s all right,_ but that wouldn’t come, either.

He felt something touch his face, but the room was going dark and the sounds that were managing to break through his ears were muffled and wrapped in cloth.

As the last of his strength ebbed away, he looked down, and was shocked to see a huge puddle of red liquid pooling under him.

“Lancelot?” he managed to gasp before his eyes wouldn’t work either.

*

God, the sun was _so_ hot. And why was the horse under him swaying so much? Arthur’s stomach heaved, and he sat bolt upright, and then retched violently.

He caught a quick glimpse of grass and sky, a few purple mountains in the distance, and felt a hand on his brow before he slept again.

*

_Stop this! Lancelot, for your family’s sake -_

“Arthur?”

Arthur tried to answer the voice calling his name, but his throat was dry, and the only thing he managed was a croak. After a moment, cool, clear liquid was poured over his lips, and he drank thankfully. He moaned when the cup was taken away, but tried to understand the words spoken to him.

“Too much is bad,” the voice was musical and feminine. He heard a snatch of speech that he couldn’t decipher, and then another voice that made him try and open his eyes.

_Lancelot. Lancelot._

He waved a hand about, flailing for the voice, desperate to _touch_ it, to know it was there. Long, familiar fingers grasped his, and he felt wetness from his eyes, his body relaxing when it realized that the thing it longed for was real.

“Arthur,” the man’s voice said again, and Arthur could sense the pain and sorrow in it. “Arthur, open your eyes. Come on, you can do it.”

He tried. He really did, but when he managed to get one cracked, the light in the room made him hiss in shock, and he closed the lid with an almost audible bang.

More murmuring; Arthur caught the words for ‘worry’ and ‘ill’ and ‘love.’ He thought. But…his mind was distracting him by going places it hadn’t been in a long time, and he could have been creating the Sarmatian words out of his memories.

_Arthur – I care because you do. And I told you, my place is at your side. I chose it. I did this for you. If I shied away from doing things for you because of the disaster potential they held, I would have to hide in a cave for the rest of my life._

A gurgling laugh bubbled up out of Arthur’s throat, and the last thing he heard before he passed out was Lancelot’s voice – except this time the tone was scared and quick instead of annoyed and loving.

*

The sky was dark, and Lancelot stared down at the simple, unmarked grave. His arms were crossed, although in one hand he held one of the smelly yet pretty flowers that Arthur had remarked on a few weeks ago.

Had that only been a few weeks ago?

He leaned over and laid the blossom on Farrin’s plot, and shut his eyes, whispering a few words for the peace he hoped she’d found at the end of her too short life.

The rain began to fall, and Lancelot stood up, making sure the flower he’d left for his niece was staying in place despite the weather.

He looked up to the sky, and thought again on a choice he’d been bandying back and forth for the past day or two.

In his delirium, Arthur had asked, and then begged, to be taken outside to the orchard, so he could see how Jols was doing with the fall harvest. Lancelot hadn’t answered him at first; he had merely stroked the hair off Arthur’s forehead and made sure the bandage around his middle was clean and securely fastened.

When he’d asked for the third time, Lancelot had had to get up and leave the room, Lily’s gaze following him.

After a moment, she’d joined him in the hallway, her face thunderously dark.

“You will explain this,” she said in a low tone, so as not to disturb Arthur. Lancelot had crossed his arms and tightened his mouth.

“He thinks he’s at home,” he answered simply. “He wants to go outside and I cannot begin to figure out how to tell him he’s not there.” Lancelot’s had eyes burned suddenly, and he’d bit his tongue until the urge to cry passed.

“I don’t know that he’ll know the difference, my brother,” she’d sighed. Touching Lancelot’s arm, she looked up into his eyes. “You had best decide what you’re going to do. He will not survive a long journey home, if you want my opinion. But … I understand if that is what you think he would wish.”

She had turned and re-entered Arthur’s room, the door shutting with a quiet _snick_.

Lancelot moved to where the overhang of the roof shielded him from most of the rain and shut his eyes. The whirling images of the past few weeks layered with those of the past twenty years. He saw the faces of his fellow knights, of Ligeia and Olivia – he smiled at the thought of Olivia, and just how fast she’d grown up – and, lastly, he saw the faces of his parents. Or, at least his memory of them. It had been too long for Lancelot to truly remember how they looked. Flashes of his mother’s dark hair and eyes competed for the kindly smile of his father on the last day he’d seen them.

And then all he saw was a pair of intense green eyes, and a broad grin, and strong hands and tanned skin and scars on a body that he could map with his eyes closed.

His dry eyes dripped tears at last, and he stood still in the shadow of Lily’s house, and thought of Arthur and how much – no.

How he was _everything_. And Lancelot turned and went into the house; he entered Arthur’s room, and sat at his bedside. He took one of Arthur’s hands in his, satisfied for the moment that it was a decent temperature, and he brought it to his lips, his mouth brushing the ball of Arthur’s thumb.

Arthur turned his head and looked at Lancelot, the gaze intense and clear this time. Lancelot thanked the gods for that small gift, and tried to smile at him.

The wound Arthur had received to his gut had festered badly, and the hit to the head that Arthur had suffered when he’d fallen hadn’t helped. Apparently Ebrahim hadn’t been one to believe in rules of proper combat – Lancelot laughed bitterly at that idea – and had sliced as deeply and raggedly into Arthur’s belly as he could when Arthur and Lancelot had been on the verge of a fight themselves.

Lily had done the best she could, but as they lived in a truly rural area, it was almost impossible to get any proper medical care. Lancelot grinned darkly as he wished for the garrison medicus. He thought it was the first time he’d wanted for anything Roman.

Besides – well.

Lancelot wanted to kill Arthur himself for his actions. Granted, Lancelot had done what he had sworn he would, and had dispatched Ebrahim, making sure the bodies of the young man and his household lay where they had fallen. 

But…every time Lancelot tried to discuss Arthur’s actions with him – sans the beating Arthur deserved – he couldn’t do it.

Besides, Arthur’s mind hadn’t really been in the right place.

“Lancelot,” Arthur sighed, and Lancelot kissed his hand again.

“I keep waiting for you to do as I asked.”

Lancelot ran his hand over Arthur’s, and then lay it down on the bed. “What’s that?”

“It’s not that I don’t trust Jols, but I really should be outside. I’ve been in this bed for far too long, Lancelot. I don’t feel ill.”

_Gods damn the world._

“Arthur,” Lancelot said, his gut twisting and his nerves pulled so thin he thought he could feel them move as he shifted on the bed. _Fuck it. No more lying._ “We’re not home, Arthur. We’re at Lily’s house. My sister? You’ve taken a bad wound to your stomach, my heart. I can’t take you outside because we are _not_ there.”

Arthur’s face echoed the confusion in his voice. “I’m not sure why you think you need to lie to me, Lancelot. Whatever Jols has done, you can tell me. I won’t punish him. Just, please. I need to get out of this bed.”

_I need you to remember. And I need you to forgive me._

Rage rose up in Lancelot, and he stood, leaning over Arthur. “We’re three weeks’ journey from home, Arthur! I can’t take you outside because you’ve made it impossible for me to travel with you! You’ve injured yourself, and you can’t remember the truth, and may gods rain the fire of retribution on you for making sure I’ll die alone!”

Lancelot’s eyes ached and he couldn’t stop the tears this time, couldn’t stop the vitriol that spewed from his mouth, his anger directed toward the one that should have been able to hear it –   
Arthur’s expression twisted, his pale face and sallow skin making him appear much older than he was. He turned his head away from Lancelot, and seemed to sink into the bed.

“I didn’t do that,” he whispered. “Just as you didn’t tell me to stay with Lily when you rode off to seek your own death.”

Lancelot’s mouth gaped for a moment, and then he shut it. Rubbing at his temples, he moved to the other side of the bed so he could see Arthur’s face.

“Arthur,” he asked quietly, kneeling so he was level with the other man. “Where are we?”

“I don’t know,” Arthur answered, his voice broken and not his own. Lancelot shuddered to hear him sounding so weak, so – defeated.

“I think I know sometimes,” Arthur went on. “But then I can swear, Lancelot, absolutely swear, that I can hear sheep and see the tops of the apple trees. And once, I thought I smelled that unguent you use when you’ve shaved.” He reached out a hand and Lancelot took it immediately. “Then – the walls shift and the lights blur and I really can’t see and my belly pains me.” He frowned and touched it with his other hand. Lancelot pulled it away before Arthur could make things worse, or loosen the bandage. “And a few hours ago I heard Tristan.”

_Gods damn the world, a thousand times over._

“That was a long time ago, Arthur,” Lancelot replied, his hands clamped around Arthur’s. “A lifetime.”

“I know,” Arthur said, his brows descending over his eyes. “But – damn it! Ow,” he gasped, and wrenched one of his hands from Lancelot’s to touch his stomach. Lancelot’s eyes followed Arthur’s hand, and he leaped up, running for the door, and calling for Lily.


	8. Chapter 8

Lancelot jerked awake, his breathing fast and shallow. He scrubbed a hand over his face, and his eyes moved to the window, looking out at the sky.

Dawn hadn’t come yet. 

He trained his gaze on the bed next, and watched for the rise and fall of Arthur’s chest. After a heart stopping moment, he saw it move, and he slid the chair he’d been sleeping in closer to Arthur.

For a moment, he stared at the thin body in the bed, and felt the same rage and hopelessness he’d felt every night since this had happened. And then he realized Arthur’s eyes were open, and staring at him.

“Arthur?”

Arthur raised his hand and rubbed at his eyes. “Where – Lancelot?”

“I’m here,” Lancelot answered, and shifted to sit on the edge of the bed. He was slow about it, as he didn’t want to hurt Arthur or move him unintentionally. He took the other man’s hand in his, and held it loosely, their fingers wound together.

Arthur’s eyes tracked Lancelot’s face – but Lancelot had a feeling the other man was following his voice. Arthur’s vision hadn’t been very good for the past few days. Lancelot swallowed over the permanent lump in his throat, and rubbed his thumb gently over Arthur’s hand.

“Is it morning? I have much to do today.” Arthur’s words were scratchy and tired; Lancelot handed him some water, and held the cup so Arthur could sip. He brushed his lips over Arthur’s forehead when the other man was finished drinking.

_He’s so very cold._

“No, Arthur,” Lancelot answered tiredly. The other man vacillated between thinking he was at their home, outside of Rome, or still in Britain. Once, Arthur had called him Uther. _That_ had made Lancelot ache for hours.

_When will he go – so this pain will end?_

“I know you. Just do what I ask, this once, please? We can get things done faster, and then the men can have a night off. I know you’ll appreciate being able to go to the tavern on your terms.” Arthur laughed, a rusty, broken sound that made Lancelot grip his fingers a little harder. 

“Alright, commander,” Lancelot replied. _He’s – Gods, help me._

Arthur squeezed Lancelot’s hand once, and then seemed to fall asleep again.

Lancelot stared down at him for as long as he could. When he rose, tears stained his bearded face, the silver hair in his goatee outshining the black. He strode stiffly from the room, intent on getting a bit of food and the herbal drink Lily’s doctor had left for Arthur when he’d come the last time.

Lancelot didn’t let himself see the old, wasted, frail person in the bed. He saw the soldier, the man that had roared his fury down the hill at Badon, the commander who’d carried the world on his shoulders and the man who had loved Lancelot.

That man was inside the weak shell; he always would be. And that’s the way Lancelot would remember him.

_Gods, when will he die – please, let him find peace. Let him find his Heaven, if that is what he wishes, and let him die with a bit of the fire in him that I will love until the end of my own days._

*

The birds were stirring; one called out, a mournful song that made Lancelot want to find his bow and use it to take the bird from its perch. Not the nicest thought, he knew, but he was done with melancholia and sadness. And to hear it from a bird….

He had spent the last week thinking on his life, his experiences in Britain and in Italy, his family, and his ill-fated journey here to help his sister. After some intense time spent alone – he’d never do that again, thank you – he’d realized that his conclusion was the same now as it had been before they’d left home.

He wasn’t sorry. 

He was Lancelot, the soldier. He had been trained from the time he was a young boy to protect others and to kill whenever necessary. He knew right from wrong, knew when it was proper to act on it, and knew when it was best to ignore “fairness” and to leave well enough alone.

He was also Lancelot, the man, who happened to have found meaning in loving another person whom he’d hated with his whole being at first. And that other person was almost everything that was anything in Lancelot’s life, and Lancelot had dragged him into a situation Lancelot had known would probably end up badly.

But – he wasn’t sorry.

Arthur was a smart man. He was a warrior to the core, trained, intelligent, a tactical genius that had always been able to tell when things would work and when they were idiotic.

Lancelot had fought with himself over the guilt he felt in getting Arthur involved in this mess. He stopped short, however, at the point of thinking it was his fault that Arthur would probably die here, away from his home and damnable beloved sheep. 

Despite everything, Lancelot believed that Arthur would be all right with his predicament, because he knew that he would have done the exact same thing if Lancelot had felt Arthur was doing something life threatening.

Lancelot would be just fine with accepting death in Arthur’s stead. He almost had, several times. When he was younger, he had raged at himself for that, had hated the idea that he would willingly walk into fire or take an arrow to the chest for Arthur’s fucking _ideals._

Finally, after many years, he’d realized it wasn’t the ideals he was defending. It was Arthur himself, and when Lancelot understood that, he stopped chastising himself. He loved the other man with every breath, and that was, in the end, something to be cherished.

Lancelot had mostly reconciled himself to Arthur’s sacrifice, despite its idiocy, and he gradually became aware that the other man would never fully leave him. Arthur and he had lived dangerous, violent lives for a long time, and the fact that one of them could die at any moment was always close in their thoughts.

But…in the ten years that Lancelot had spent living with Arthur outside of Rome, he had grown complacent and lazy, and had forgotten the soldier’s life. At least, he thought he had – until he’d seen Arthur bleed and collapse at his feet. Until he’d seen his strong, capable lover turn into a weary, thin, pitiable old man.

Lancelot still wasn’t sorry, still didn’t regret his decision to come. He knew Arthur didn’t either.

He only wished Arthur could tell him so.

He stood at the chopping board in the kitchen, holding the mug of herbs in his hand, and wept. He caught his face in his long fingers, and sobbed silently, every little thing he’d ever done with Arthur, or said to him, or any fight, or any night spent loving the other man flashing through his mind’s eye. He saw the garrison at Badon, he saw the plains of his home, and he saw the apple orchard that Arthur loved so much.

He wept, and he wished and begged and prayed for Arthur’s God to take him, so Arthur would get the rest he deserved. 

He wept, and clutched at a wooden bowl so tightly that the rim cracked. He fought against the notion of being ‘alright’ with Arthur’s death, and the fact that he would never be whole without the other man. He knew Arthur was in a terrible amount of pain – he was no longer the man he had been – and Lancelot knew that Arthur deserved rest.

But his heart did not want to let Arthur go.

A noise distracted Lancelot from his introspection and tears, and he looked up. 

“Fuck!” 

The curse was loud, and the fruit bowl cracked even further as Lancelot dropped it in his haste to get outside.

*

The yard looked far different than he remembered. There hadn’t been mountains near here before, had there? And the trees – they were evergreens. Where were his apple trees?

Arthur shook his head, and looked around again. _This is Lily’s home. Not yours. No sheep, no Jols, no baths, no home that was made extraordinary by Lancelot’s presence._  
Lily. Lancelot’s sister….Ebrahim.

Arthur touched his gut and winced slightly. It wasn’t as bad as it had been, but he knew something wasn’t right still. He felt light and thin and too, too old.

Scrabbling at his face suddenly, he felt heavy beard and was shocked by it. “How long…?” he whispered.

“Arthur! By the gods, man, what the fuck are you doing?” Lancelot’s voice interrupted Arthur’s thoughts, and he frowned, trying still to catch the wisps of memory.

“You’re ill! You should be in bed. Mithras,” Lancelot shouted, and then sighed as he took Arthur’s arm. He guided the other man to the bench in the yard, and sat him down gently. “Don’t fucking get out of that bed, man. For once in your life, do what I say.”

Arthur shook off Lancelot’s hand, and sat hunched over, his arm still across his gut. He was sweating and cold at the same time, and his vision suddenly wavered. He blinked, and their surroundings came into clear focus. The trees were the same ones he’d seen the first day they’d come here, the house was obviously Lily’s, not his, and he clearly _felt_ every ache, and twinge, and pain in his body.

He remembered the fight, and Lancelot’s growl as Arthur had stopped him from killing Ebrahim the first time. He remembered Lancelot’s face, his fury, the blades in his hands as he had come toward Arthur.

“I do understand, though,” Arthur said, speaking to his own thoughts, his voice tired and flat. He coughed, and rubbed at his gut. Lancelot’s eyes met his, and Arthur reached out a hand.

“Help me stand, please,” he asked, and Lancelot did as Arthur requested, only fighting slightly when Arthur didn’t want to go in the house.

They walked slowly to the edge of the yard, and a little ways into the trees, until Arthur spotted a fallen tree and shuffled toward it. Lancelot wrapped his arm tightly around Arthur’s waist, whether to hold him up or just to have contact with him, Arthur wasn’t sure. Either way, Arthur craved the touch.

Arthur gingerly sat on the ground against the fallen tree, and Lancelot sat with him, his arm pulling Arthur closer. Normally, Arthur was the one who held, who cradled, who acted the caregiver – Lancelot was never overly obvious about his physical desire to nurture Arthur. He did what he wanted, when he wanted, and showed his feelings when he cared to, and he had enough sense to know that Arthur knew how he felt.

This time, though, Lancelot pulled Arthur against his chest, and raised one knee so the other man was held comfortably in a cocoon made by Lancelot’s body. Careful not to jar or hurt him, Lancelot slid his arms around Arthur and sighed against his hair, his emotions all to the fore, jumbled and annoying and not welcome.

But – this was Arthur. This was where Arthur wanted to be, and despite the fact that Arthur should be in bed, Lancelot had the distinct feeling that it was – it had to be – acceptable for the other man to be wherever he wanted to be right now.

Arthur relaxed against Lancelot’s body and Lancelot leaned his head forward. He pressed a small kiss to the bone behind Arthur’s ear, and, when he didn’t feel Arthur tense up or try to move, he knew this was what Arthur wanted. 

Lancelot shut his eyes and licked his dry lips. The lump in his throat was back, and he cursed inwardly, not wanting this to be about him – but about them _both_.

“Lily’s home,” Arthur said quietly. Lancelot nodded his head. “Yes.”

“I’m sorry I held you up here,” Arthur added, and Lancelot laughed, the sound only slightly bitter. Arthur’s fingers found his right hand, and their fingers wound together slowly, Lancelot squeezing tightly when he felt the chilliness of Arthur’s skin.

“I thought about dragging you home in a cart,” Lancelot answered, his voice hushed in deference to their surroundings and to his feelings. “But … that would have been cruel and unusual. Even I don’t stoop to that – anymore.” He smiled against Arthur’s neck, and the other man huffed a rough laugh.

“I am sorry, heart,” Arthur repeated. Lancelot squeezed Arthur’s fingers a bit too tightly, and snorted. 

“Stop saying that,” he sighed. “It’s done. I’m not going to argue with you over the stupidity of what you did,” he kept going as Arthur tried to say something. “Just – Arthur.” Lancelot laid his cheek against the other man’s. “I know why you did it,” he whispered, the damnable lump making it difficult to talk. “But that doesn’t mean I’ll forgive you for leaving me.”

When Arthur didn’t reply, and didn’t contradict him, Lancelot’s eyes burned, and he unabashedly let a few tears fall.

“Too many words,” Arthur said. His voice cracked and he shivered violently once in Lancelot’s hold. “Too much to say, not enough time, not ever enough time to tell you.”

“Shhh,” Lancelot murmured. “You don’t have to. I already know it all.”

Arthur’s eyes tracked upwards; he saw a bird circling in the air gracefully, and he smiled. “D’you remember the falcon?”

“Tristan’s?”

“Yes,” Arthur replied. “What was its name?”

“Iseult,” Lancelot said. A few more tears fell and he kissed Arthur’s cheek, despite the horror of what he felt was about to happen. Despite everything he wanted to say and tell Arthur, and _gods damn the world,_ there was no time.

“Iseult,” Arthur repeated. He coughed weakly and wiped his mouth. There was blood on his fingers when he returned his hand to his lap. Lancelot merely kissed him again and held on more tightly.

“I can make you stay,” Lancelot whispered fiercely. “I can will you to stay here with me. Let me try, Arthur. Let me try.” He knew it was a dream and stupid to even voice it, but he didn’t care how ridiculous he sounded anymore. Every fear Lancelot had felt each time he and Arthur had stepped onto a battlefield together was suddenly whipped into his mind, and he shut his eyes briefly against the onslaught of old memories and feelings he hadn’t experienced in over two decades.

“Would do it again,” Arthur said. He meant it. He turned his head enough so his eyes met Lancelot’s, and his heart twinged at the expression on Lancelot’s face. He raised his bloodied hand, not seeing the viscous stuff there, and touched Lancelot’s beard. “Silver here, now,” he murmured. “So young in my mind. Always. Always wild, and fierce, and strong and brave and so much more than I could ever be. The sight of you on your horse, that first battle. You were like the fire that twisted in our brazier in the great hall. Hot, and dangerous, and impossible to touch.”

He smiled and dropped his hand, too weak to keep it in the air. He shifted on his backside, so he could rest his left cheek against Lancelot’s chest and feel the heartbeat there.

“And you came and found me,” Arthur said dazedly, his words running together. He slurred his speech, and the early morning sun came and went from behind the trees, and he was _so_ tired, God, so tired.

“You came to Rome to find me, even after the way I’d locked you out of my heart.” Arthur shuddered and coughed – this time, the force of it shook his thin body and made him bend over. Lancelot rubbed his back and wept silently. When he was finished, Lancelot tugged gently at the other man and made sure Arthur was resting comfortably against his chest. Lancelot laid his cheek on the top of Arthur’s head, and rubbed his thumb against the ball of Arthur’s hand.

Arthur sucked in a breath; it wasn’t easy for some reason. His belly was on fire, and his lungs felt as frozen as they did when they camped out on the road. He listened to the thudding underneath his ear and smiled crookedly when he realized it was Lancelot’s heart.

There was so much he had to say. And damn it, but he was so tired. If he could just sleep for a bit, then he could speak to Lancelot when he woke. And then they could go outside, and see what the animals were doing, and perhaps….

“Lancelot,” he said. “I think I’d like to ride tomorrow. But not to Ligeia’s. Let’s go to that spring, you remember? The one we found last harvest; the one you almost fell in to.”

He felt Lancelot’s lips on his forehead, and he laughed. “But I’ll watch you this time, my heart, for I cannot lose you to the waters.”

Arthur looked at the trees that surrounded them; they were blurry, and he heard the sounds of men riding and fire crackling. There were people talking, but all he could see, all he could focus on, were his knights, his brave men next to him on their horses, their weapons flashing and their banners unfurled and so bright as to blot out the glow from the Saxon’s fires. Lancelot’s black danced next to his own charger, and he saw the other man smile at him, his teeth white and dazzling and his face the only thing Arthur ever wanted to see again. But then – 

The drums from Badon filled his head with their steady thumping; the noise pushing aside everything else. Surprisingly, though, he didn’t mind. He blinked away the smoke, and felt a hardness under his cheek – was he laying down? – and there were hands on his body, familiar, loved hands, and the drumming of the Saxons faded away, to be replaced by the sound of Lancelot’s heart.

His eyes were suddenly filled with bright light – was that the sun, finally breaking through the gloom of the morning? _At last_. 

He smiled to see it.


	9. Chapter 9

_Too many words. Too much to say, not enough time, not ever enough time to tell you._

The pyre flared brightly; Lancelot’s face was turned to the sky, and his arms were crossed over his chest. He felt strange not wearing stiff leather or mail, but truth be told it had been an age since he’d worn mail regularly, and why wear heavy leather when he was standing this close to fire?

He couldn’t feel it.

Lily had left some time ago, her prayers still softly echoing in his ears. The clouds overhead threatened rain, but so far only a few spatters had fallen. Lancelot would have thought it a great joke had it poured on Arthur’s funeral pyre.

Everything seemed a great joke recently. Lancelot could see the humor in _all_ situations; he laughed at Arthur’s boots when the lace broke as he was putting them on the other man, he chortled at the fact he could barely find enough of the right kind of wood to make the bonfire, he cried tears of mirth when a few fat drops of rain had fallen as he’d lifted Arthur’s body to its place among the kindling.

His face was coated in tears and sweat, but he wasn’t smiling now. He couldn’t actually tell what he was feeling. He thought he ought to be sad, or lonely, or gods, even angry, but so far it was just…nothing. Not even outraged, or caustic, or horrified. Not even blank.

It was as if most of himself had gone into that fire with Arthur. His limbs worked and his frame moved like it should when he directed it to, but his lips felt awkward around words and his eyes seemed to try and focus on two different things at once anytime he tried to pay something attention.

The moon was fat and hung high when the fire finally burned itself out. Lancelot hesitated for a mere fraction of a moment, and then strode through the dead kindling to the center of the pyre – or what was left of it. He carried a simple clay jar with him, and as he bent to his task, his eyes began to focus on multiple things again. They also seemed to want to leak copious tears. Shrugging, Lancelot allowed his body to do what it wanted, and kept at it.

At last he was finished, and he straightened up, his back creaking and complaining. Tucking the jar inside his cloak, he kicked apart the remnants of the fire until almost everything was gone. The bigger pieces of wood that had been left he stomped into tiny sticks, the heavy heels of his boots making short work of the burned trees.

Picking up Excalibur as he left the clearing, Lancelot did not look back. He found he had no desire to do so.

*

Lancelot felt the hoof beats of his mount, the sound echoing in time with the bouncing of the old pendant he wore against his chest.

The bags that rested on either side of his saddle were mostly empty; his double blades were wrapped carefully with linen and stored over his horse’s left flank. Excalibur rode at his side, hanging from the belt that had once been Arthur’s.

He was close to Rome. The trip back had been blurry and surreal, his mind filled mostly with unwanted images of either Lily’s face as he’d rode away - _I will always love you, my brother_ \- or memories of that final fight with Ebrahim.

He couldn’t remember the exact words that had been spoken, but he could plainly see Arthur as the other man had stepped in between himself and Ebrahim, Excalibur breaking the bond between the other swords. He could plainly see the look on Arthur’s face as Lancelot had stormed to him, angry and disbelieving that Arthur had tried to stop his fight. _Lancelot’s_ fight.

He saw Arthur’s body fall, saw the blood spill from his gut, saw Arthur clutch at him as they sat together against a fallen tree, and he saw Arthur die so far from home.

His face was numb, but Lancelot’s limbs and chest hurt like a demon had taken residence in his body and was gleefully using his organs as sustenance.

He was so close. So close to their home, and so close to having to tell all of Arthur’s householders that he’d been unable to save their master and by the gods –

What would he tell Ligeia?

*

Jols took the news as Lancelot had expected, but he hadn’t expected the squire to insist upon seeing the urn before he’d believe Lancelot’s story. Even when Lancelot showed him Excalibur, and the belt he wore. Even when he’d told Jols a few details of what had transpired - even when Lancelot had told the man in no uncertain terms he’d be taking care of Arthur’s remains.

_Arthur’s remains._

Lancelot’s teeth flashed in the gloom and he dismounted, tired of arguing with the unbelieving servant. “I’m taking my horse in to the barn. Believe what you will, Jols. I have ridden for weeks with the weight of this on my life and I cannot explain it to you any further right at this moment.”

He shut his mouth, and his teeth clacked loudly and painfully together. Jols had stared at him for a moment, and finally nodded.

“The two ladies are here,” Jols said, catching Lancelot’s arm as he turned to lead his mount to the barn. “Shall I…?”

“You shall do whatever you wish. Leave me alone, Jols. You can afford me that, yes?”

He’d jerked his arm out of the other man’s grasp, and took his horse to the barn.

*

The sheep were placidly chewing hay, and Lancelot fed and then groomed his horse until the animal’s coat shone with an unearthly glow. Lancelot put his brushes down, and led the horse into a stall, feeding it one last carrot before he shut the door. The animal neighed softly at him, and Lancelot swore its expression was one of sorrow.

An expression he was very tired of seeing.

He sat on the edge of the low fence that surrounded the sheep, and realized he still wore Arthur’s sword. He stood, and unbuckled the belt, then sat back down as he held Excalibur in his hands. He couldn’t seem to make his fingers work well, and was focusing on that when a touch on his shoulder made him jump.

“I’m sorry, Lancelot,” Ligeia said as she joined him on the fence. She was dressed simply in a night shift, and Lancelot thought once again just how strong and beautiful she really was. The corner of his mouth curled briefly as he noticed the combs she wore in her hair.

“Nothing to be sorry for,” he replied, and scrubbed a hand over his bearded chin. He kept a hold of Excalibur, and tried to smile at her. “It is grand to see you.” He meant it. A friendly face was something he found he craved for some reason – not a normal want for him.

The friendly face he was used to was gone.

Her eyes filled as she smiled back at him.

“Please, don’t,” he said, his tone low and begging. “Please.”

Remarkably, she kept her composure even as tears fell slowly down her cheeks. “I am so very glad you are home. We missed you terribly.” She slid closer to him and rested her hand over his; the one that gripped Arthur’s sword and belt. “I thought Olivia would go crazy with the waiting.”

He nodded and lowered his head, staring at their fingers that rested on the hilt of Excalibur. “I am sorry for the time,” he said at last. “I should have come inside directly. I just…I had to…care for my horse. I pushed him hard on the way back.”

She squeezed his fingers. “Of course. And your sister? Does she fare well?”

He shrugged, the motion still fluid and sensuous after so many years. “As far as I can tell. It was…Ligeia. I don’t think I can do this right now.” He met her gaze, and had to swallow over his suddenly swollen throat.

She raised her hand and touched his face gently. “I know. And it’s all right, Lancelot. I just wanted to see you, and let you know there is food for you when you are ready.” Standing, she dropped her hand to his shoulder. “And I wanted you to have this.”

The scroll she gave him was obviously well read and well cared for. Lancelot could tell it was written in Arthur’s hand.

_What did you give him?_

_Notes for Ligeia and for Olivia. My notes for the wedding. They asked for my help, you bastard. Leave it._

_…what else was there?_

_…my will._

“Thank you,” he whispered, and rose as she turned to go. “Ligeia.”

She stopped, and faced him. He reached out a hand, his fingers slightly trembling and cold. Touching her arm, he drew her close to him.

“Lancelot?”

Her dark eyes, so like his, stared up at him, and he choked back a sob. Not now. Not in front of her. Not in front of anyone.

He took her in his arms, and although he tried to relax, he found he couldn’t. His body was stiff and painful, and his eyes remained opened and dry. She held him tightly and didn’t say a word.

He loved her more for that.

*

The sheep settled for the night, and still Lancelot sat on the fence, and still held the unopened scroll in his hands. 

He tapped it against his thigh, and rested his head against the wooden wall behind him. A small noise drew his attention to the pen, and he noticed one of the sheep was standing close to him, and staring at him. He cocked an eyebrow, and then returned his head to where it had been.

_Mehhhhhhhhh._

“What?” he asked the animal, sighing as he looked at it again. It was even closer and he could have reached out and touched it. If he’d wanted to, which was something he could almost guarantee wasn’t going to happen.

_Mehhhh._

“Yes?” he spoke again, and then smiled, a rusty motion. “I am talking to sheep, now. Gods help me; I’ve truly lost my mind.”

The little black faced animal butted up against the fence, and Lancelot shook his head. “Arthur was the one who wanted you, not me,” he whispered to it. “Go bother someone else.”

_Bahhhhh!_

“For the love of my sanity, stop it!” The words tumbled out of his mouth, and he stood, his body shaking and his face twisted in anger. “I am not him! I am not your master, I am not here to care for you, I am not here to love you and shear you and do whatever else he’d fucking planned to do with you! I don’t know! He didn’t tell me! And now I can’t bloody well ask him, can I? Hrm? Can I???”

The sheep stared at Lancelot, and then placidly began to chew its cud. He shouted an unintelligible curse, and kicked the fence he’d been sitting on.

The scroll fell out of his hands, and he stooped to pick it up, his hips and legs creaking with the motion. The sheep stopped chewing, and stared at him again when he righted himself.

“You fucking animal,” Lancelot spat. “Fine. Although I’m certain there is _nothing_ about you in this document. As if he’d spend the time to write about sheep in his will.”

_As I am of sound mind, I, Lucius Artorius Castus, state that these words represent my wishes as to the fate of my estate and my monies._

_Upon the event of my death, all of my estate and my fortune will pass to Lancelot Ap Ban, for him to distribute as he sees fit. I leave our home, our animals, and our worldly goods to him in the hopes he will care for our householders and our neighbors, the Orona family._

_I leave my flock of sheep in the possession of Jols, son of Brian, my loyal squire and long time trusted ally and friend._

_My father, Uther Castus, wished for me to be buried with his sword, Excalibur, when I died. However, I would ask that Lancelot keep the sword instead. May it bring him luck and fond memories._

_I remain,_

_~L. Castus._

Lancelot read the parchment until he thought his eyes would dry up and fall out from not blinking. He made _hmphing_ noises, he tapped the scroll on his leg, he rolled and unrolled it, yet still the words remained as written.

_He left me everything._

_Everything. All of it._

“Except for you!” he shouted suddenly, his mouth quirking and his hand pointing at the sheep with the scroll. He laughed; a dark, crackly sound that made the animals in the pen start and move away from him.

Except for the one that had butted the fence earlier. “Except for you,” Lancelot told it as he sat back down on the wooden slats. He crossed his arms, the will gripped in his fingers. He was cold – and Lancelot was never cold. He shivered once and rubbed his arms, the sound the parchment made against his tunic hurting his ears and making him want to screw his eyes shut tight.

“Except for the bloody sheep.”

He laughed again, raising a hand to cover his mouth as bile filled his throat. Lancelot leaped to his feet, and running to the closest empty bucket, he vomited into it until his stomach was sore and he was bringing up only air.

He rose, and staggered back to the sheep pen. He tried to sit on the fence, but fell awkwardly to one knee onto the hard packed earth that made up the floor of the barn. Cursing, Lancelot slumped to a sitting position – and quickly jerked upward again. He’d sat on Excalibur.

He held the sword and belt in his hands, along with the copy of the will Ligeia had given him. Of course he’d do whatever Arthur had asked – would have asked – him to do. He’d take care of the householders, he’d make sure Ligeia and Olivia and her husband were cared for, hell, he’d give Jols the sheep Arthur had been so proud of.

And then he’d ride away with nothing but the clothing on his body and Excalibur, and if the gods had any sort of compassion for him, Lancelot would fade into memory, and not have to learn to exist without – 

If Lancelot had to think Arthur’s name one more time this day, or think of his face, or his actions, or his broad, weathered body, or his hands, or his smile, or his annoying, frustrating trust, or of his love, he’d surely go mad.

He ran one finger over the carvings on the blade of Arthur’s father’s sword, and contemplated using it for his own purposes. The coward’s way out, as Lancelot’s mother would have said.

 _Not worthy of you,_ as Arthur would have said.

The little black faced sheep nudged the fence again, and Lancelot shut his eyes. “If you promise to leave me alone, I will promise to think about it. The future, I mean. Alone.”

_Mehhhh._

“Fine, then.”

Lancelot leaned against the pen, wrapped his arms around Excalibur and his middle, and slept.


	10. Chapter 10

The scent of flowers pervaded the air; Lancelot sneezed for the fourth time.

At least it hadn’t rained. He could faintly hear the strains of music in the distance, and he could still smell the food that was being cooked on the spit outside the tent that had been erected in the apple orchard. The trees were flowering – it would be time for them to bear fruit soon.

Lancelot hoped Jols and the others were up to the task of picking them, because he would be gone by then.

At least, he planned to be. Actually, he’d planned to be gone a few months previous, but every time he tried to select a few items to take with him and just go, he always found an excuse. Oh, this thing hadn’t been done. Oh well, the rest of the horses hadn’t been distributed to good farms yet. Oh, Olivia’s fiancé wanted to be shown how to ride and shoot a bow at the same time. Oh, Lancelot wanted to wait until the weather got better so he didn’t have to travel in the pissing rain.

Fingering the tooled sword belt he wore (the sword itself felt like such a part of him he barely noticed it) he leaned over the stone wall that separated their land from the neighbors, and stared at the large lake that glistened in the late evening sun. He’d rarely come out this far; it was on the very edge of Arthur’s property, and he wasn’t really that fond of water, unless you could cross over it on a boat or a bridge.

Olivia’s wedding day had turned out beautifully. They’d gotten everything planned without a hitch, and when Lancelot had noticed Olivia had woven sprigs of apple blossoms in her hair, he’d had to walk away from the ceremony.

He knew why she’d done it, and it touched him, but it was really still too soon to bear.

Gods, Arthur had been proud of his damned orchard. And he’d had a right to be – it was lovely and produced the way it should every single year. They still had fermented cider in the barn, and Lancelot never wanted to see another apple tart again, he’d eaten so many.

He’d never have imagined Arthur as the hands in the earth type of person, but the man really had turned out to love it. He told Lancelot once that it was his form of something he called “energy release,” a concept he’d read about in one of his history books. Lancelot had tried to understand it, but in the end had grown bored – why exert yourself so hard when the end result was only sweat and exhausted muscles? If he wanted that, he’d have just trapped Arthur in the bedroom or bath house and had a lot more fun.

Lancelot allowed his eyes to slip shut; the sun was setting, and the wedding was winding to a close. The couple would be traveling in a few moments to their new lodgings in the city – Lancelot hadn’t been able to see it yet, but in truth he really didn’t want to see that place – that hideous monstrosity of a city – without Arthur.

And of course that wasn’t possible now.

Jols had been delighted to have the sheep; he had hemmed and hawed about staying on as Lancelot’s head of household, and Lancelot had finally grumped and told him to do whatever his damned fool British head told him to do. Jols had immediately told the rest of the residents that Lancelot was master now, and to do what he asked.

In his heart of hearts, Lancelot was happy to have the other man there. It kept him from having to do too much, and it was a small reminder of old days, which Lancelot found himself thinking on more and more.

“Here you are.”

He jumped and cursed, and turned to see Ligeia standing next to him against the wall. “It shames me to no end that my senses have gone so downhill now that I am an old man,” Lancelot sighed dramatically, crossing one ankle over the other, leaning against the brick on his elbows. Ligeia laughed, and stood close to him.

They watched the sun set in comfortable silence, and slowly Ligeia put her hand on Lancelot’s arm as the last of the purple rays disappeared. He smiled lightly and wound their arms together.

“Will she be happy?”

“Oh, I truly do think so,” Ligeia replied. “He’ll be good for her. And this might make her grow up just a bit.” She laughed, and Lancelot joined her. She squeezed his hand with hers, and nudged him. “That sounded nice.”

“What, my rusty old pipes?” His brows drew together. She raised a hand and then gently ran a finger between his eyes, smoothing the thick line that appeared there.

“You look like he did when he was worried,” Ligeia stated softly. “Which was constantly.”

Lancelot’s mouth pinched, and he drew away from her. Ligeia sighed, and turned slightly to face Lancelot, who was staring steadily at the lake. The stars were starting to reflect in its glassy surface, and the moon that had begun to show was fat and bright.

“My dear friend,” she said. “I wish – no, damn it, Lancelot.”

Lancelot’s expression showed the shock he felt at hearing the lady, usually so prim and full of decorum, curse at him. And then he smiled. He couldn’t help it.

She scowled, and crossed her arms over her waist. “You have brought me to swearing, you horrid person. That alone should make you proud.”

Lancelot laughed, despite his desire not to. Seeing proper Ligeia angered enough to curse was something he felt he should record in a diary somewhere. “What is it, my lady? What have I, humble knight that I am, done to warrant such harsh words from such an appropriate woman?”

She shook her head, but smiled. “I wish for you to find happiness again.”

“That is something I have not thought of in months,” Lancelot answered her truthfully. He shrugged. “You know what I think of. Always.” He would not voice it. She knew him well enough to understand. “Besides, I am content with my existence. I have you women with me, I have Jols,” he rolled his eyes, “and the horses, and our – his orchard. It is enough.”

“I don’t want for you to be ‘content,’ Lancelot. I want you to be happy. I want you to be full, as you were, of the vitality and strength that seemed synonymous with you. I don’t even see you smile anymore.” She snorted a breath of frustration, and leaned an arm on the wall. “He wouldn’t want to see you living like this – half a man. A shadow that skulks around, a walking skeleton, looking through a death’s head mask that covers your true self. My sweet friend, I cannot bear to see you thus.”

The light look on Lancelot’s face gradually shifted to something completely different as Ligeia spoke. His fingers, still so strong and slender, clenched together, and began to vibrate as he felt something rise inside. Something he hadn’t felt since Arthur. Something he wasn’t sure he could put a name to.

“Arthur would want you to be _happy,_ Lancelot. He’d want you to live, just as fully and exuberantly as you did when he was alive. He would hate to see you – ”

“What do you know of what he’d want?”

Lancelot’s voice was shaking, and the hands he’d been clutching were suddenly by his sides and shaking. His face flushed, and he took a step toward Ligeia. To her credit, she did not move.

“You barely knew him, woman. I was with him, beside him, for more than two decades. He and I were more than brothers, more than blood. More than anything anyone has ever been. He was the one thing that made me live through a hellish fifteen years of slavery that I was forced into – I hated him, loved him, breathed only him for my entire life.

“And now he’s gone, and I am alone, and by the gods, but I don’t know how to do that. I don’t _want_ to do it, Ligeia! He fucking left me, he left me because of something I did, and you think I can just be ‘myself’ again? What kind of fool do you take me for? He was my lover and my friend and my Arthur and _fuck_ how can I even think to breathe without him beside me?”

Lancelot’s face was as stone; his eyes burned, but the tears he’d shed for Arthur were long dried. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, Ligeia was right. He was a skeleton, a shell, a walking dead man that ghosted through life, the wind blowing him whichever way it wanted; only it never blew him to what he missed the most.

Instead of shouting back at him, Ligeia closed the gap between them, and took his trembling hands in hers. She squeezed them, and met his eyes. Tears shone on her cheeks, but the corners of her mouth quirked slightly upward.

“This is why I love you. And this is why Arthur loved you, Lancelot. For you to live not as yourself is a disservice to his memory and to the force and passion with which he loved you so. Nothing is fixable overnight – but my friend, I can only hope for you to _try_. You’re right, I didn’t know him like you did. But I knew him well enough to understand that he’d be devastated if you slowly wasted away without him.”

She dropped his hands, and briefly cupped his cheek with one palm. “Honor him with the life you have left in you. It will never be the same, but it can be wondrous in its own way.” Standing on her toes, she pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, and turned to go back to her daughter’s wedding.

Lancelot watched her go, and leaned back against the brick of the wall. The sounds of the night insects rose around him, and he heard a few varied splashing sounds coming from the lake behind him.

_Arthur, come here. I can’t reach you all the way over there._

I can’t reach you.

Lancelot took a nimble jump and sat on the wall. Crossing his legs, he rested his chin in his hands, and closing his eyes, listened intently to the strains of music that wafted from the wedding tent. Excalibur hung comfortably from Arthur’s belt that he wore, and Lancelot took a deep breath for the first time in months.

He smelled the newly blooming apple trees, and took another breath.

*

Lancelot craned his head to the sky; he took a deep breath and shut his eyes. Raising his hand, he hesitated once, and then knocked at the gate.

A scrabbling sound, and then the face of a servant appeared. “Sir?” he asked, casting his eyes up and down the length of Lancelot’s clothing. Scowling, Lancelot rested his hand on the hilt of Excalibur. “I am here to see your _domina._ She’s expecting me.”

The man paused, and Lancelot contemplated braining him and just stepping over the body, but he heard Olivia’s voice float through the courtyard.

“Lucius, let him in.”

“Yes, madam,” the servant said, albeit with a slightly distasteful look on his face. He opened the gate to the courtyard fully, and gestured for Lancelot to follow him.

Entering the foyer, Lancelot sneered at the servant as the man bowed dramatically and left him. Olivia appeared from a doorway, and smiling, crossed to Lancelot and took his hands in hers.

“You need to find householders that won’t question your every move,” Lancelot said crossly. Olivia laughed, and kissed his cheek. “Same old grumpy bastard,” she said lovingly. Lancelot cocked a shocked eyebrow at her language, but laughed when she winked. 

“Come with me. I’ve got some wine outside, and I’d really like for you to see the land in the back. It’s rather lovely, despite it being in the heart of the city.”

The house was quiet and arranged artfully; Lancelot was glad again Arthur had been the one to fully get to know and at last approve Antonius Festus for Ligeia’s daughter. Not that Olivia would have obeyed either her mother or Arthur if she’d been set on marrying the man – but he had turned out to be a good and kind husband, and provided well for her. Lancelot was glad of it; he hated to even think of having to take the young man out and ‘get rid of him’ if he hadn’t been good to Arthur’s friend’s child.

But he would have done it, regardless. Arthur had loved Olivia like she was his own, and therefore Lancelot would protect her for as long as he lived.

They crossed through the house, and out into the garden Olivia had been telling him about. Lancelot stopped and looked about – the Romans did know how to decorate land, even if they only had a tiny bit of space. There was a small box maze at the edge of the plot, a few simple and well made marble statues, and in the center –

A fountain surrounded by three of the biggest Apple trees Lancelot had ever seen. There was a small bench, and the seating area was secluded and cool and close enough to the burbling fountain that you could believe you were at the loveliest resort in the world.

He stepped under the branches of the first tree, and stood in the fruit-scented shade, the breeze light on his weathered skin. He allowed himself one deep breath of the blossomy air before he controlled his expression and turned back to Olivia.

“It’s very beautiful,” he told her, and she smiled brilliantly, as if relieved he liked it. Picking up two goblets that had been sitting on a tray near the bench, Olivia carried them to where Lancelot was, and sat after handing him a mug.

She drank, more deeply than Lancelot would have thought, and he joined her. They sat in silence, finishing their wine, and finally Olivia set her goblet down and clutched her hands together.

“Do you think he would have liked it?”

“I think most definitely yes,” Lancelot answered. He smiled reassuringly at her, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He sometimes felt he didn’t recognize the man he saw in that electrum mirror that hung outside his room anymore – too much grey, too many lines, his eyes so hooded from gazing into the sun and from being outdoors he thought he squinted all the time now.

His body was still the same – lithe and strong, but his hard muscles weren’t as flexible as they had been, and Lancelot had woken a few weeks ago to discover to his horror his lower back was _killing_ him. He’d hobbled to the baths and had a long soak, but each morning when he awoke it still bothered him.

Arthur had left him to the horrid, awful thing that was growing old _alone_.

Sighing, Lancelot stood and picked up the two goblets, then placed then back on the service. He turned to face Olivia, who was still seated on the bench, biting pensively at her lip. “Lady?” he stuck out his hand. “I apologize, but my time is short.”

“I tried to set up the yard like he suggested – the maze in the spot where it would get the most use, and then this section,” she gestured to the apple trees, “with the most sunlight. I’m not sure I got it right. Do you think I got it right, Lancelot?”

_Mithras._ Lancelot steeled his face again, and crossed to her, forcibly taking her hand and making her rise. “Olivia,” he said gently. “You have a new life, a new husband, and you can do what you like with your home. I think Arthur would have been proud of the way you’ve turned out – and he’d be so very happy that you still love him the way you do.”

He led her slowly to the house. “But the best thing for you to do is what you will, lady. Keep yourself happy, honor your life and your desires, for things go fast and you never know when you’ll turn around and it’s just you.”

He brought the palm of her hand to his lips, pressed a soft kiss there, and left her home, refusing to look at her as her eyes followed him, indecision and loss still playing about her youthful, sad features.

*

Lancelot hadn’t intended to stay in the city proper for long; he’d been to see about his finances and then to Olivia’s home. He was making for the inn where he’d left his horse when something familiar caught his eye.

Sunlight glinting off gold, ostentatious colors and broad, well built arches framed a gaudy building.

_He raced around the corner of the church, and promptly brought up the little breakfast he had had. Wiping his mouth with a shaking hand, he strode back toward the coliseum, his feet echoing sharply, his head swirling with anger and outrage. He had spent more than a decade fighting for this city, and one day’s exposure to its ‘sights’ was enough for him._

That damnable church. Lancelot was ready to pass, cursing under his breath, when he noticed the door was open at the side. Stopping, he craned his head around the wood, and, not seeing anyone immediately, curiosity getting the better of him, he took a step inside.

He was surrounded by the smell of hated incense, and a dangerous frown pulled his brows and mouth down. He looked around the place, noting the stained glass and the dark, polished wood. He strode up the side, and stopped in front of the altar. A large but simple cross decorated the table, its age obvious in the weathered material it was hewn from.

No one was about – which Lancelot thought odd – but he stepped up onto the dais and crossed his arms as he looked at the two wood pieces that had symbolized so much and so little throughout Arthur’s life.

He reached out and touched it, feeling the smooth grain, and walked all the way around the altar, looking for something special or magical, something that might explain things better to him. A sign, a miracle of words, a light from the “heaven” that Arthur had believed in for so long.

He halted at the front of the table, having completed his circuit.

Nothing. No sound, no noise, no dulcet toned voice crying from the sky ‘I am Arthur’s God, and I have taken care of him as I promised him I would.’

“You never listened,” Lancelot said, his voice quiet, yet echoing in the large, drafty building. “You were never there for him. You let him suffer for years, for decades, and he thought himself abandoned for so long. And yet – he had his faith until the very end.”

Lancelot realized his face was wet, but he went on. “I was the one who held him. I picked him up when the men continued to die. I listened when he ranted and railed the _few_ times he allowed himself human emotion. And yet he always talked to you. He always offered prayers and loyalty and thanks to _you_ , oh god that could never deign to show his followers any kind of love.”

“You! Get away from there!”

Lancelot gripped the handle of Excalibur – it was drawn before he knew what he was doing. An old priest stood in front of him as he turned to face the pews – the man cowered in his vestments as he jerked back from the crazy barbarian that wielded the shining, huge sword.

“You must not touch the altar,” the priest whispered.

Lancelot stared at him, disgust in his eyes, and at last he sheathed Arthur’s blade. The man breathed a sigh of relief as Lancelot moved passed him.

“Blasphemer.”

Lancelot turned only his head. “Most definitely.”

The priest muttered something, and Lancelot kept walking to the main door. He kicked it with his booted foot, the wood crashing back against the wall, Lancelot ignoring the shouts of protest from the old priest. He walked stiffly to the inn where he’d stabled his mount, and, after paying the landlord, rode out of Rome for what he hoped was the last time.

*

That night, soaking in the baths, Lancelot refused to examine his feelings yet again toward Arthur’s God. Instead, he sat in the hot water, remembering every time he and Arthur had come to this building, every time they’d consummated their passion here, every argument, every kiss, every smile and every joke.

He’d been thinking on his past again – too much, lately. Going over each thing that had happened in Britain, in Rome, even recently, in Sarmatia. Lancelot rested his chin on his knees and closed his exhausted eyes, trying to recall the way it had felt when Arthur had slipped in the baths behind him, surprising him, touching him slowly, and surrounding Lancelot with the first feeling of contentment and safety since he’d left his home. That had been the one way Arthur had been able to sneak up on Lancelot; he hadn’t enjoyed much of life at Camboglanna, but when he’d been in the baths Arthur had been able to completely shock him – Lancelot never heard Arthur coming when he was basking in the hot waters, breathing in the steam and herbs and ignoring the pain in his existence.

Arthur’s calloused hands would slide over Lancelot’s arms; his larger frame would envelop Lancelot, heating his slender body and reminding Lancelot of the fact that life could provide one good thing in the midst of sacrifice and grief.

His chin slipped on his slick arms; he was tired, so tired, of fighting to exist – of trying to live a life without….

_“You are worthy of love, Lancelot. You are worthy of a life free of pain and fighting. You are good for whatever you choose to be good for. It’s not up to me to decide that for you.”_

Lancelot opened his eyes; he had actually _heard_ Arthur’s voice say those words. Despite himself, he looked around the room, half expecting to see – 

He saw steam, and the few pieces of furniture, and his clothing.

_It’s not up to me to decide that for you._

_“One day, Arthur, I’ll be able to hang up these swords – and on that day, I will be truly free.”_

Why had he remembered those words? Where had they come from? Of all the things….

Lancelot stayed in the baths, thinking, until the moon was fat and the sky was sprinkled full of stars. When he at last got out and got dressed, his skin was pruned and his mind was whirling with all the possibilities and memories that filled the space that normally only Arthur occupied.

The house was quiet when he returned; Jols had left some hot cider and rolls for him in his rooms, and Lancelot drank the cider down as he undressed for the night. He slid into the large bed, the brazier comfortably banked, and as his eyes closed, he caught sight of the chest in the corner that held his things from Britain.

Climbing out of the bed, he padded barefoot to it and opened the lid. His blades were on top, wrapped carefully as they had been since his return from the Black Sea and Lily. He canted his eyes to the side, and stared at Excalibur, hung in its place of honor on the wall, the giant weapon quiet and still in its sword belt.

_What was it all for, if not for the reward of freedom?_

“Gods,” Lancelot sighed softly – his chest ached, and he raised a hand, rubbing at the scar that was so faded now he could barely see it. A flash of brilliance –

_I want peace, Lancelot. I’ve had enough._

_Give these to some maid who catches your fancy._

_Arthur, come here. I can’t reach you all the way over there._

A dry, retching sound came from Lancelot’s throat, and as he crouched over the contents of his life with Arthur, his body shook and another sob ripped from him. And another. And another. He gripped the sides of the chest with his hands; his eyes squeezed shut, but he didn’t try to stem the flow of wet, salty tears that dripped from his cheeks to the blades that lay wrapped in the case, coffin-like in its silence and purpose.

The pain in his chest loosened, and after a bit, Lancelot opened his eyes, and looked down at his swords again, his livelihood, his means of support for so long, the path that had led him to Arthur in the first place.

He touched them once, smearing the few drops of tears that had hit the hilts around the metal, until his reflection in the steel was obscured.

He stood shakily, and shut the chest. He turned to Excalibur, and touched it as well, and then made his way back to bed on painfully tired feet.

When he closed his eyes again, he slept in peace and dream free for the first time since that day in the woods, the last time he’d held Arthur in his arms, the last time he’d seen the bright green of those eyes stare at him, the combination of love and wonder still present after a lifetime of being together.

He slept, quietly and without moving, and even the birds did not call out in the early morning as they usually did. When Lancelot woke, he dressed quickly, and with a sense of calm he hadn’t felt since he was a child.

He opened the chest and removed his swords, and took Excalibur down from the wall. He strapped the sword belt on, and left the room. When he passed the electrum mirror, he stopped, and gazed at his face for a moment.

There was the grey, and the lines and the difference in expression and feature. But –

Lancelot lifted a hand, and touched his reflection. The young man that smiled back at him was cocky, and self-sure, and had too broad a grin.

He blinked, and the old soldier with the wizard’s goatee was looking at him again.

He turned and strode out of the house, the sun rising, the rays warming his back and giving him courage for the thing he had to do.


	11. Chapter 11

The sun was trying to shine, but Lancelot could tell by looking at the ominously cloud filled sky that it wouldn’t last long. He entered the stables and saddled his mount, looking once at the sheep in their pen. They were just stirring; they seemed fat and happy and Lancelot rolled his eyes as one of them bleated at him. Knowing his luck, it was probably the one that bothered him before.

“I am _not_ feeding you,” he said as he mounted up. “Your new master is Jols, gods love him.” The animals began to wake more fully, and Lancelot got out of the barn as they started to _baaaa_ in force. As he rode toward the outer perimeter of their land, he shook his head, a small smile playing about his features. Arthur had always had an affinity for the strangest things.

The woods hid the sky for a bit, and when Lancelot cleared the small forest, the rain looked inevitable. He reached the lake he’d seen from Ligeia’s home on the day of Olivia’s wedding, and tethered his mount under a copse of trees so the animal wouldn’t get too soaked. He unstrapped his swords from the side of his saddle, and, Excalibur swinging comfortably from his belt, walked to the edge of the lake even as the rain began to patter softly.

He watched the dimples forming on the surface of the water, the weight of the double blades in his arms as familiar as his own breath. The grooves in his hands cradled the swords like infants, and he felt the passage of time slip away as if it had never been there to begin with.

Thunder cracked, and his hair flattened out and leaked water down his collar. His leather pants squeaked as he moved closer to the lake, his face smooth and calm behind the lines and crags of his age. If he could have seen himself, he would have thought it a joke at how like his young self he appeared – if only in attitude.

His booted feet reached the shore of the lake, the grit of the stones there crunching as he walked. He allowed the water to lap at his feet – the boots were old, he didn’t care – as he continued to stare at the ripples the rain caused, almost mesmerized by their pattern. He knew what he wanted to do…but he didn’t know how to _begin_ to do it.

Breathing deeply, Lancelot closed his eyes, and recalled the day the Romans came for him. He remembered the look on his parent’s faces, the hand of his sister, Lily, stretching up to him on the too tall horse, the pendant she held his now and forever. He smiled slightly to himself at the thought of her innocent face – still so much like it had been, albeit older. Time and the sorrows of life had etched themselves into both their expressions, but Lancelot would always remember her as that little girl that had seemed miles away as he’d reached for the metal lion she’d offered him.

The rain pattered onto his head faster, and Lancelot’s brown eyes opened. He took another step toward the lake, the water turning colors with the speed of the storm that was battering its surface. It was a swirling green now…a green Lancelot had seen for many years and could still see as if the eyes that had owned that color had never closed.

The air was charged, thick and heavy and hard to breathe – mud and blood and the stink of death filled his nostrils – the sounds of knights and heavy cavalry were all around him.

_Arthur! This is not Rome’s fight! This is not your fight!_

_All these long years we’ve been together…the trials we’ve faced, the blood we’ve shed…what was it all for, if not for the reward of freedom?_

_And now when we are so close…now when it is finally within our grasp – look at me! Does it all count for nothing?_

_You ask me that – you who know me best of all?_

Best of all. Best of all – look at me!

Does it all count for nothing? Nothing…nothing…nothing.

_I should have stayed in Sarmatia, you bastard. What do I do here? Why am I here? What do I do, now…how do I fit this place?_

_You are here because I love you. That is enough._

Love had always been enough for Arthur.

Not noticing the tears that streamed down his lined face as they mixed with the hard rain, Lancelot roared out an unintelligible cry of pain and sorrow and rage and hurt and loss so keen he felt it in his entire being. His stomach clenched and his angular features contracted and his fingers gripped at his blades, the leather wrapped hilts biting into his flesh – no longer comfortable, no longer welcome, no longer wanted. He raised his arms, and with one strong motion, flung the weapons away from him.

_One day I will retire these blades. And then I will be well and truly ready to belong to only one duty, Arthur._

_What duty is that, my heart?_

_You, Arthur._

One of the big black rain clouds moved on the wind, allowing the smallest bit of filtered sunlight to shine through. The brightness reflected on the steel of Lancelot’s swords as they arced gracefully across the water – the glint off the metal flashing into Lancelot’s eyes, momentarily blinding him.

When he was able to see again, the two blades were gone.

He stood in the lake, wetness filling his boots, and stared at the spot where the weapons had slid into the water with hardly a sound. He stared and watched as the rain finally began to slow, and then ceased all together. He stared until the dimples and ripples on the surface of the water had nearly dissipated, and then he stared until the night birds and animals begin to sound and his horse behind him began to neigh, distressed it had been left so long alone.

That sound forced him to wake, as if from a long dream that had been more real than the actual _life_ he’d been living for the past few months. He turned and walked back to his horse, soothing the animal on the nose and finding a few fallen apples for it before he mounted up.

With the horse still crunching on the tart fruit, Lancelot unwound his reins, slung his slender leg over the saddle, and clicked to the horse to head on home.

The lake behind him whispered a few words of farewell – but Lancelot did not reply. Strangely, he had no urge to.

He was done with that duty.

 

**Five years later.**

“Come on, Antonius! Put your back into it.”

Sweat dripped from Lancelot’s forehead down his face, the salty liquid sopping his beard and making his cheeks sting. He laughed as he raised an arm and wiped his tunic sleeve across his skin, and stopped to rest a moment, leaning his body against the wooden hilt of his axe.

Olivia’s husband swung his arms mightily as another hunk of tree split. The air was beginning to turn crisp and the apples in the orchard were fat and almost ready to harvest. Lancelot, ever prudent, had told the younger folk that they would be in charge of that this year, but not to worry, because Jols was an excellent farmer.

He’d then winked at the ex-squire, who’d shot Lancelot the dirtiest look he’d seen in a long time. Especially coming from the Briton. Laughing, Lancelot had ambled away from the other man, crunching into an apple he’d plucked himself a bit earlier.

Despite not wanting to be too involved in the physical ‘heroics’ of harvesting, Lancelot had perked up when it came time to split the pieces of fallen trees into bits, making them ready for the winter season. He wondered why, and then smiled slightly to himself at the fading moments of memory that came and went easily these days.

_Never pictured you as a salt of the earth type man, Arthur._

_Get your lazy buttocks over here and help me, Lancelot._

_No…I think I’ll stay here and admire your sweating torso, my own. But … not that up close, because by the gods do you stink! Wait, Arthur. Come on, put the axe down…don’t fucking touch me … wait! You fuck! You know I’m ticklish there …._

Lancelot picked up his axe and swung to, helping Antonius Festus in his chores, as Olivia, clad in some of her husband’s old trousers, began the arduous task of hauling the ladders out to the edge of the field. Lancelot refrained from teasing Jols as he passed by; the Briton was carrying ladders as well, head held high and proud expression on his craggy face.

Soon the rest of the household had joined them, and no other conversation was heard except for grunts, laughter, and few snitches of songs that passed from person to person as the day wore on.

*

“Are you feeling alright?”

Lancelot jerked at the sound of Ligeia’s voice, and smiled at the woman tiredly. “Fine. Just old, as well you know, friend.” He sat back in the chair he’d been hunched in, and stretched his legs out in front of the fire that was going nicely. Lancelot liked the kitchen at night; it was still warm and smelled of that day’s cooking. Plus, he was certain to always find plenty of wine or some type of snack. He patted his belly; he _was_ getting old. He’d never eaten like this when he was younger.

Ligeia cocked an eyebrow and sat in the chair next to him. “You are still rail thin and wiry as you always were. Do not make me tell you again, Lancelot.” They smiled at each other, and then Lancelot’s gaze returned to the fire as he finished off his wine.

“The children did well today,” he commented mildly. “Antonius will make a man of the earth yet.” He toyed with the ties at his shirt front; the sounds of crackling wood and of the house settling down were making him sleepy. But something else was keeping him here. He glanced at Ligeia, and frowned slightly at the exhaustion he could see etched into her face. Still beautiful, though, after all these years.

He reached out a hand, and tentatively squeezed her fingers. She met his gaze, surprised, but squeezed back. Returning his hand to his lap, Lancelot sighed and rose, stretching his back and plunking his wine goblet down onto one of the counters. “A pleasant night to you, lady. I’ll see you in the morning.” He walked around her, but stopped and picked up her hand again. Raising it, he pressed the back of it to his lips briefly, and then replaced it gently on the arm of her chair. “Try the cider. It’s outstanding as ever this season.”

And he was gone before she could speak or mention something he did not wish to think on.

His rooms were ready for the night, the brazier lit and the bed made with fresh linens. The rushes and thick fiber that made up the mattress smelled sweet, and he sat on the edge as he kicked off his boots and undressed silently.

He kept no mirrors in the room – the only one he had still hung in the hall, an old piece of electrum that sometimes fooled him into thinking he was either younger than he was, or that there was another person reflected there beside him.

Although every time he turned to check, it was always just him. Just Lancelot, hair almost white, his goatee a true wizard’s silver now.

He slipped into the bed, the furs warm against his bare skin. He turned on his side and raised his arms, his hands winding about themselves as they always did, the one piece of jewelry he wore chinking softly as he settled in for the night.

The thick, simple war band that encircled his wrist was a strange amalgam of colors – mostly silver, but it had bits of copper and iron in it that seemed to sparkle in the right kind of light, even though he himself had finished the thing with a silver brush so it would have texture.

The smithy that had made it for him had stared at him aghast when Lancelot had told him what he wanted.

_But…this is solid silver – and this is copper! You want these smelted – together?_

_Pretty colors, don’t you think?_

_Aye, sir, but a bit … unusual._

_You will be paid well. Just do as I ask._

Arthur’s cross and Lancelot’s pendant were no more – instead, they were one joined piece that formed the simple band Lancelot now wore on his forearm. It was big and plain, and he pushed it up to the edge of his elbow; most of the time it was hidden by his tunic sleeve. He had taken a jewelry brush to it the night the smithy had finished; it now shone with a strange tarnished light that he found rather beautiful.

Mixed and mashed and not elegant, not perfect, not flawless and glowing the way the smithy had suggested to Lancelot.

Somewhat uneven in tone, a strange, almost ugly mix of metals, and reminiscent of the old prizes the knights had taken from Woads or in a few instances, off Saxon bodies. It was a true prize, and Lancelot felt Arthur would have approved. It spoke to Lancelot in ways not many things did any more – except for Excalibur, and that was never far from Lancelot’s side, either.

Despite his vow of retiring from the life of weapons – Lancelot enjoyed training with the large old sword. He spent many hours in the small ring he’d built behind their stables, working until his muscles screamed and his body was as brown as it had been white in Britain. The old grooves his double blades had left marked into his hands gradually became replaced by a larger, more central mark – Excalibur’s heft and size belonged to _him_ , now. He was glad of it – the sword was a reminder of many things – some good, some bad, some hideously awful and some hilarious and wonderful. Lancelot kept these thoughts to himself, as his time with the sword was intensely private and more moving than he would care to admit.

He could almost feel Arthur watching him as he practiced, could hear the other man’s voice, encouraging, praising, and moaning when he pulled some horrid move or made an easy mistake. Lancelot would grit his teeth, curse at Arthur, and continue on until he got everything exactly right.

Which he inevitably did. Despite his promise, despite his hatred of all things war. He thought it remarkably amusing that the two things he had that reminded him the most of Arthur were the other man’s sword, and a war band made from a metal lion and a melted cross.

The furs that covered his body gradually warmed him to the point of sleep, and Lancelot brought the arm that wore the band up close to his face. He gazed at it for a moment, and then he allowed his eyes to close.

*

Snow coated the acreage outside. His breath steaming in the chilly air, Lancelot stood on the back steps of the house, heavy wool coat that was too big for him – too broad and too long – covering his slender body and doing a fine job of keeping him warm. He sipped at the mug of cider that constituted his breakfast; he wasn’t one to wake up easily and he wasn’t hungry yet.

For the past few weeks he’d been feeling somewhat strangely – the sense he’d had as a knight, the one that had allowed him to stay alive through so many battles – kept making itself known, though Lancelot had no clue what could possibly be dangerous now. Not in this life. He was old, alone other than his household staff and animals, and he really didn’t keep anything about that anyone would want to steal. Besides, if any thieves were to attempt to break into his home – Lancelot laughed at the thought. Excalibur was always next to him, be it when he was abed or awake. He was still quicker than lightning and no one he knew was faster at killing, or better at it. He would defend his home and his friends as he had when he was young.

So what was bothering him? Why the idea that something horrid was just around the corner?

The Orona women were at their respective houses, and he was thankful for the quiet. This time of year, despite what he told anyone – or didn’t tell anyone – was not an easy one for him. The yard and the sky had looked a lot like it did now when he’d made his decision to stay with Arthur, a decision that haunted him each waking moment, and sometimes during sleep. Would he have been smarter to leave with Gawain and Galahad, always broken, always not quite the man he should have been if he’d lived with Arthur as he had? How did Lancelot even know he’d have ended up that way? It could have been fine. He could have stayed in Sarmatia, or traveled around the world, teaching riding to rich folk and soldiering to the young and stupid. He could have spent his entire life on horseback, living from a case, taking his meals a different place each night, camping under the stars, no permanent brick home at his back.

And he could have been in love with someone that whole time and never with them, and he could have been miserable and unfinished and _alone_.

“I am alone now,” he murmured aloud, and shook his head as he drank more of his cider. Now, he was land owner, a retired knight, a herdsman, a cook, a philosopher (he laughed at that) and historian to the young ones about, a friend to many, but a lover to none.

Never again would he take someone into his life in that way. He loved Ligeia, but not like he had others. Not like he had _an_ other, actually. Despite the way his young life had started out, despite the philandering and womanizing (and man-izing, if there were such a thing), Lancelot, once he’d made the decision to go and find Arthur the year after he’d left Britain, had never touched another soul.

He hadn’t even thought of it, actually. That’s just the way things had turned out.

Shrugging to himself, he scanned the horizon with intent eyes as his knight’s hunch tapped him on the shoulder again. He saw nothing, heard nothing, and could not imagine what he should be afraid of.

He finished off his drink, set his goblet down and, plodding through the snow, entered the stables and greeted his horse. The animal whinnied, and readily accepted the bridle that Lancelot placed upon it.

As he was about to put the Roman built saddle on the horse, Lancelot hesitated. He thought for a moment, and then, after returning the saddle to the long wooden rail where the others were housed, he vaulted onto the horse’s back, bare like he had as a child. It felt somewhat strange, but as soon as he rode out into the yard and got his bearings, he was bracing himself with his knees and smiling like he was ten years old.

The morning was bright, and the sun reflected off the snow almost blindingly as Lancelot took up the reins in one hand, and squeezed at the horse’s sides with his legs. The animal took off joyfully into the pristine day, neighing and flipping its tail as it raced past the gates to Lancelot’s property and headed into the woods.

They rode continuously for an hour, Lancelot’s face freezing, his fingers growing numb on the leather reins. He was grinning like an idiot although he couldn’t feel it, and his thighs ached as he gripped at the horse. He allowed the animal freedom and let it take him where it would. He tucked the edges of Arthur’s long coat under his knees to keep it from flapping, and then he stopped thinking and just _rode_ like he had the few precious times he’d had leave from their fortress at Badon.

The river came into view, and Lancelot allowed the horse to run along side of it, the water mostly frozen and the reflection of the sun on the glassy surface gorgeous and surreal. He wondered for a moment if his blades were happy, sleeping there, and then pushed that thought away. He couldn’t feel them anymore, so he was certain they were.

They crested the top of a hill, and Lancelot reined the horse in briefly. “Go, boy,” he whispered to it, “find the oceans of grass.”

The animal’s ears pricked forward, and the two of them were flying through the open land, and Lancelot, for a quick and shining second, spread his arms wide to the heavens and lifted his face to the sky. He could hear a strange loud sound, but then realized it was himself – laughing.

The large dead fallen tree was hidden by snow, and neither Lancelot’s mount nor Lancelot himself noticed it. There were too many things to be happy about. 

The last thing Lancelot remembered seeing was the winter bright sky, and the flash of color from the few still flowering evergreens that dotted the landscape – the green so very, very reminiscent of his beloved Arthur’s eyes.

*

“It’s about time you woke. I was getting bored.”

Lancelot groaned, and sat up. He felt at his forehead, but there was no bump, no gash, and best of all, no blood. He looked about him, and realized he was back in their room at the villa. “Well, one tends to sleep when one is injured, as well you should know, Arthur.”

The slow smile that answered left a spiraling tease of desire in Lancelot’s gut. He stood, and moved off the bed to where Arthur was standing at the window. The other man was wearing a simple black tunic and leathers, and Lancelot’s fingers rose to touch his hair – dark and springy and thick.

Arthur’s arms slid about Lancelot’s waist, and the knight sighed as he rested his uninjured forehead against Arthur’s neck. “I may not be able to forgive you for being gone this time,” Lancelot whispered, pressing his lonely body close to the other man’s. He shivered and had to suppress a noise of joy at the feeling of being next to Arthur; he’d thought he’d forgotten what it was like. 

A chuckle rumbled Arthur’s chest, and frowning, Lancelot lifted his head so he could see Arthur’s face.

“What, pray tell, is amusing you? I don’t find this situation any kind of funny, you ass.”

“You’re not alone now,” the answer came, and Lancelot rolled his eyes. “I have been watching you, you know. You were never alone, Lancelot.”

Lancelot breathed out heavily and closed his lids. It seemed so long … but … here was Arthur, and his arms were around Lancelot, and he was holding onto Lancelot like he had so many times before. “Then why was I so empty?” Lancelot rolled his lips inward and felt the flush that stained his cheeks. Arthur’s mouth twisted and Lancelot was surprised to see the other man’s eyes fill and redden.

“It is done now, my own,” Arthur whispered. He touched Lancelot’s chest, and pushed aside the tunic he was wearing, exposing the scar from the arrow bolt that had almost taken Lancelot’s life at Badon. The scar that had marked Arthur’s existence into Lancelot’s body forever – and had helped make him live inside Lancelot’s heart. Lancelot wouldn’t have done what he had on the Hill if Arthur hadn’t wanted it.

As Arthur said it, Lancelot _knew_ the other man was right. He smiled, a bright toothy thing that made Arthur grin in answer, despite the sadness in his eyes. “I knew it would be you that would come for me,” Lancelot said quietly. “It could only be you.”

“The only one,” Arthur answered, agreeing. They stayed wrapped around each other, not speaking for a moment, their eyes only for one another, and their heartbeats gradually slowing and matching.

Lancelot’s war band chinked against his wrist, and Arthur looked at it, then back at Lancelot. “I like it,” he said, touching the heavy thing. Lancelot nodded, and then looked at the jewelry as well.

He pulled out of Arthur’s arms, and walked to the bed. Without hesitation, he removed the heavy piece, and laid it on the furs that covered the mattress. Returning to Arthur’s side, he pressed his hip into Arthur’s and slid his arm about the other man’s waist. Laying his head over so his wild dark hair touched Arthur’s own black curls, Lancelot laughed quietly.

“I don’t need it anymore.”

Arthur rested his arm around Lancelot’s shoulders, and the sun sparkled off the snow that they could see from the window, the light refracting and reflecting off the glass in front of them, coating them in gold and yellow and red and white.

Lancelot decided he did love the snow in Rome, after all.


	12. Chapter 12

It was raining. Again. Lucius Petronius, dark hair hanging limp and wet in his face, swore as he squinted at the sky. Wasn’t Rome – or at least its environs – supposed to be filled with beautiful, sun-baked lands? Not this dark, pissing stuff that had been plaguing them for three days. His father had been going on about it for too long now, worrying that the constant wet would create havoc out of their newly built stables and courtyard.

“And if we don’t have a good home to show, how on earth can I pass you off as a decent suitor?” Lucius mocked aloud, his father’s voice still echoing in his ears. Lucius didn’t really care about being a good husband – he knew he’d have to do it at some point (knowing his luck, sooner than later) – but for now, what he wanted to do was ride, practice his fighting skills, and throw as much caution to the wind as possible. No one knew how long life would be – besides, why not enjoy it while one had a bit of freedom? Who needed to be stuffy and responsible when there were new colts to break in and a new longbow at home to try out?

In actuality, Lucius understood why his father wanted stability for him, and a good future. His mother had been dead these four years, and it had been … interesting, just him and his father. Now that Lucius was of marrying age, it was time to set some sort of goal for himself. He knew this, deep inside, in that place where he locked things that he didn’t really want to face.

He’d get there. Just not today. Today was for the last remnants of childhood, and running through the woods, and climbing trees, and perhaps later a swim in the lake –

Lucius squinted. He raised a hand, and shaded his eyes from the glare the rain sodden clouds created. What was that – there it was again.

Scrambling over a few rocks, Lucius made his way bravely through the rain to the edge of the lake. He bent over, and examined the things that had caught his eye from the woods. Sticking out a long fingered hand, he jerked at the items until they came free from the detritus they were tangled in. He ended up falling hard to his buttocks, but kept hold of the swords he’d pulled from the trash that had washed ashore.

Swords. As if the lake had spit them out for him to find. Odd, and yet…Lucius examined them in the weak light, the rain that had been falling constantly ignored now in favor of the once grand weaponry in his hands.

The steel was in good shape still; the time the blades had spent under the water hadn’t ruined them yet. He could probably clean them up with some oil and a piece of flint rather easily. 

The leather wrapped around the hilts was another story. It was rotten and came away quickly when Lucius rubbed at it – and then he cocked his head in surprise. The hilts were engraved with a simple, one letter mark that he tentatively ran his hand over, softly and almost with reverence. The engraving was old, but still clearly readable.

A simple ‘L’ in the block Roman style. Both hilts held the mark, and Lucius looked around at the woods, then up at the sky, his face incredulous and only a bit scared. Had someone…no. This was chance, pure and simple. 

He stood, and lifted the swords, one in each hand. The steel was remarkably light, and the swords were so well balanced that when he gave them a test swing, it was as if they were a part of his own grip. Lucius shuddered once, his skin prickling oddly, and swung them again, in arcs around his head and body. After a moment he was going so quickly the swords seemed a blur, and he opened his eyes, not realizing he’d closed them. The sun broke through the nasty dark clouds briefly, and as Lucius watched the swords as he flipped and swung them, the rays caught the edge of the steel and sent a reflection into his eyes.

He stumbled and almost dropped the weapons, and when he looked up at the offending sky, the sun was gone, the clouds having covered its watery light again.

Lucius held the swords in one hand, and stared at the lake again. Happenstance had brought him to this place this afternoon; chance had made him stay out despite the rain, and his own stupid will had kept him here, no matter the discomfort of the weather or his own dark thoughts about his impending future. He raised the blades and bit his lip, thinking.

For only a second, though, and then he was turning, running back to the woods, new found weapons clutched in his strong, slender fingers. His father could help him with the cleanup and care of the swords – and perhaps, Lucius could help him with the new stable and courtyard.

He wanted both of them to have a good home.

Lucius did not look back as he made his way to the woods, his legs swift and sure, hands gripping his new treasures tightly and with confidence.

The rain fell, although more softly this time, and the lake remained a silent observer as it had when the first owner of the swords had sacrificed them to its depths.

*

The villa was still in the evening – it was long past time for anyone to be awake, but Helena Festus Gallicus was up and meandering through the orchard, her white legs visible beneath the men’s old tunic she wore. The apple smell was strong, and she stopped at her favorite tree, pressing her face to the bark and inhaling deeply. The trunk was scratchy but it felt good to her.

Wandering to the barn, she checked on the horses – they were quiet, and Helena swore that if Baxter, her gelding, could have been snoring, he would have been – and then eyed the sheep in their pen. They too were slumbering peacefully and Helena smiled at them before exiting. She didn’t have any place in particular to go, but for some odd reason she couldn’t sleep and warm milk – which she’d stopped drinking at thirteen, thank you – was not on the agenda any more.

Her mother and grandmother had been after her all day to make a decision in regards to the suitors that had left only a few hours previous. She liked them all – but – there was something missing. Something not quite heroic enough, or not quite thrilling enough, or not exactly handsome enough. She twirled a piece of her hair, and realized just how idiotic that sounded to her own mind; she was eighteen and no fool, but just the same….

There was a story her grandmother had told her since she was old enough to remember it, since she was old enough to stay up past sunset and allowed to sit at Olivia’s knee and listen to her grandmother’s tales. They were just that – fairy tales, really. The men and women in this story couldn’t have possibly been as good and as righteous as Olivia made them out to be. And yet, after all this time and all the years of listening to her grandmother swear up and down that the story was well and surely _true,_ Helena secretly harbored hope that it was.

The story took place in two settings; first, in a far away land called Britain, and then here, in her own home city of Rome. It was filled with fascinating people, violent and exciting battles, heroic knights and a noble man who watched over them. Helena’s favorite part of the story was the friendship between the noble man and one of his best knights; they had been soul and sword brothers and nothing, not even death, had broken the pact between them. Helena had swooned at her grandmother’s knee as a child – the men and the lady they helped in Rome seemed almost too perfect. And then the two men rode off on a grand adventure to save the knight’s sister! What a romantic story.

The ending of the story was as all romances – no ‘happily ever after’ in the traditional sense. However, the two men had sacrificed many things for one another over the course of their lives and despite the sadness that surrounded their deaths, Olivia (and Helena) was certain that their souls would be twined forever in the afterlife. God did reward His children after all, even though the heroic knight was not of Christian birth.

_The two men each had a talisman of great power, you see, that they carried always, throughout their lives. When the noble lord passed from this earth, the knight had the lord’s talisman and his own fused into one simple arm band, and he wore it every day until he too was taken from this life._

_Grandmother – what happened to it?_

_No one actually knows, child. Some say the knight left it behind when he died; others say he hid it for someone else with a great love to find. Yet others too say he carried it with him to the afterlife._

_You can’t take things with you to heaven! You don’t want for anything there._

_Probably so, darling. So who knows where the band is – although I’ve heard it is a wondrous mix of colors, copper and silver and gold threads running throughout. It is burnished in appearance, and not …shiny in the normal sense, but it has its own beauty._

_Just like the knight and the noble man._

_How do you know what it looks like, grandmother?_

Helena’s grandmother had sighed, and shooed Helena away with talk of needed to get the sewing down. Helena had grumbled, but had obeyed – but not before noticing the faraway look in her grandmother’s eyes, and the redness to them that hadn’t been there a few moments before.

The night was coming on fast, and Helena shivered as a chill breeze wafted around her slender legs. Perhaps she shouldn’t have come all the way out here without a cloak, or at least some trousers. She turned to go inside, dejected over the idea that she’d finally have to pick someone to wed – stupid Roman traditions – 

The bathhouse! That marvel of Roman engineering that Helena did not get to spend enough time in. She smiled in delight and almost skipped to the open door of the thing. No one had ever been able to tell her who built it, but she was happy to just have it here on their property.

Entering the building, she sighed happily as the warm air engulfed her chilled body, and she took up the oil lamp that had been left burning for any late night visitors and lit a few others with it. Her family wasn’t large, but they had many estate dwellers and friends that used the place, and Helena’s family householders always made sure the few buildings that were in frequent use were ready and available. Even if it was to crazy young girls late at night.

Slipping out of the tunic she wore, Helena shivered with pleasure as the warmth of the bath enveloped her. Her eyes closing, she rested her head on the back of the pool and tried to ignore the voices of her mother and grandmother – endlessly chasing her ‘round with the idea that she must choose someone to marry.

_Why? Why must I? Why can’t I live a life on my own, and do what the noble man had done? Fend for myself and swear my heart to valor and protection of the innocent?_

Helena’s mother had eyed her grandmother with a cocked brow at that; Olivia had said nothing, merely smiling innocently.

_Because. I will not host you on my land for the rest of your life, child, unless you decide to make yourself useful and become, oh, I don’t know, perhaps a horse trainer or a shepherdess? Make a decision, Helena. You can still be you – and you can choose, yourself! But this is tradition, it’s what is done here, and you will do as I did and as your grandmother did before you._

“Honestly,” Helena grumped. Why couldn’t a woman become a protector of the weak? Why couldn’t she swear her life and honor to the righting of wrongs, as the noble lord and the knight had done?

…why would being married have to stop her from doing just that?

That thought made Helena sit up and open her eyes. The story that her grandmother had told her for her entire life had resonated for so long, Helena knew she had to do what she wished. She had to be a champion of the downtrodden, and a protector of the innocent. She had to try. She _had_ to.

And she would choose a husband that had those qualities himself. Or at least, a man that might learn to love and understand a woman that believed so strongly in what was right. Otherwise, why bother?

She relaxed more; not exactly sure what she would do, but having a plan she could set in motion made her feel a bit better. Her mother would understand if it took her a while to figure each man out – but she would choose – and he would be as honest and as loyal and virtuous as she herself wanted to be.

“Thank you, grandmother,” she whispered. Helena had known all along in her mind and her life the reason the story had spoken to her so strongly, and she would take the gift of the tale to heart. Perhaps now it wouldn’t be so hard to imagine growing up and doing what her ‘duty’ required of her – she would be stout of will and strong of limb. She could do this. She hoped. She would pray for the strength needed – and she would listen to her heart.

Rising from the pool, she located a sheet of linen and dried herself. Reaching for her tunic, in her haste she flailed a bit too much for the cloth, and knocked it to the floor. Cursing – very unladylike, her mother would scold – she bent over and grabbed for the shirt.

_clunk_

Cocking her head, Helena at last retrieved her tunic, and threw it on hastily. What had that noise been? She picked up one of the oil lamps, and lowered it to rest on the ground next to where she knelt on the stone floor. She put out a hand, and tapped along the wall where her tunic had landed and where she’d heard the noise originate.

_tink tink tink tink clunk tink tink_

“Ah ha,” she murmured, and knocked again at the offending brick.

_clunk_

Using her nails, Helena managed to scrape at the old plaster that surrounded the bricks, and found – to her delight – that the one that had made the strange noise crumbled easily and came away in her hands. Excited, breathless, she knelt lower and stuck her face and the lamp next to the hole that had appeared when she moved the brick.

A small rectangular box was hidden within the cubby, and biting her lip, Helena reached for it. Then paused. This could be something she shouldn’t get mixed up in – who knew what was in the box? It could be some crazy family secret, or a nest of spiders, or poison.

She laughed to herself, only a bit nervously, and pulled the box out into the open. Seating herself on one of the benches, she set the oil lamp down and held the box in her dusty hands.

There was no writing on the box, nothing to indicate what it could be, no notes, no decoration, no nothing. Helena used the edge of her tunic to wipe the dirt off the wooden cover, and swallowing, opened it.

The interior was lined in soft fabric, and a shiny silver-looking object was nestled in the cloth. Blinking, Helena wrapped her fingers around the cool metal and lifted it into the light.

_It is burnished in appearance, and not …shiny in the normal sense, but it has its own beauty._

“Oh, my goodness,” she breathed, her voice echoing weirdly in the silence of the bathhouse.

The light picked up the flecks of bronze and gold and all kinds of different colors that ran through the bracelet – Helena turned it this way and that, examining the piece. She could find no flaw; whoever had made it had done excellent work.

It felt heavy and cool in her grip, and somehow…right. She ran her slender fingers over it, and shut her eyes, trying to imagine the two men whose loyalty and love had created the circle of forged metal she held in her hand.

Tears pricked her eyes, and Helena shook her head, melancholy and a sort of loss washing over her. And yet – not just that, either. Holding the arm band gave her a strange sense of closure, of power, and above all, love. Love, and destiny, and the wide realm of possibility that her life could hold for her.

She looked down at the piece, and lifted it once to her face, touching the cool thing to her overheated cheek. A few hot tears spilled over, and she blinked rapidly, not understanding her own emotion. She placed the band back in the box, and licked her dry lips as she eyed the hole from where she’d pulled it.

Standing, she blew out the oil lamp she’d been using, and, carrying the box carefully, she made her way back to the villa, to search out her grandmother Olivia, ready to speak her mind on her own destiny and free will.

The sky sparkled overhead, the stars clearly visible for once, and a few sheep _bahhed_ in the quiet of the night.


End file.
